


Quicksilver Thorns

by NonchalantxFish



Series: of crimson and silver threads [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Character, Dark Lords in the making, Dreams and Nightmares, ESPECIALLY IN FRENCH, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hogwarts, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Magic, Multi, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, RPR Outtake Dumping Grounds, Stream of Consciousness, Tags May Change, Tom's probably a little insane, Trigger Warning: Drowning, blurbs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-04-16 02:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 34,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14154777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NonchalantxFish/pseuds/NonchalantxFish
Summary: Red, red roses distract from the silver thorns underneath; there are thousands of thorns to a single rose, and a thousand stories underneath a single story. These are the stories that grew from Guinevere Lysandra's.Bits and pieces that didn't make it into 'Rose Petal Red'. Please read that fic first.





	1. Dietrich (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY EASTER MY DUDES! This is a present from me to all you Rose Petal Red kiddos who've been so patiently waiting. I know, I know... it's not chapter 31. I'm five pages into that right now, I'm getting it done in between essay-writing and critique-writing and stuff. XD
> 
> Anyways! Some of y'all been asking for updates for RPR and it's a holiday so I decided to give you all a consolation prize. :D Please accept this offering in return for not hunting me down for the lack of chapter. idk how many of you will see this today, but I hope it tides you over 'til the next chapter's out. :)
> 
> Enjoy some Dietrich POV. XD More notes next chapter. :3

 

**…**

 

When he first sees her, she’s standing in a gaggle of other eleven-year-old children, both hands occupied — a blonde slip of a girl on her right, a taller redhead on her left — and her eyes trained forward, chin held high. It’s striking, he thinks, because out of all the children there (and there aren’t that many, he finds out later, not for Hogwarts) she’s the only one who looks truly confident, with that straight-backed posture and a slant to her mouth.

(Later, he will recognize that tilt to her lips as a declaration of war.)

(And later than that, he will wonder why she gazed at a castle like it was a challenge — almost an enemy, but enemies only receive frozen eyes and vampiric smiles, he learns this too — when everyone else was in awe of what would be their new home.)

After that first sighting and that fateful Sorting, he doesn’t have time to waste on watching the girl with blood-red hair and piercing blue eyes narrowed in challenge. He’s busy avoiding the sneers and the whispers, keeping his textbooks safe — they are riddled with holes and tears soon enough — and his homework in-tact — he finds it missing or replaced with foul words — and trying to learn healing despite the Dark-Grey of his core, because his elbows and shins are bruised from tripping and blocking. He’s busy trying to find time to sleep in between taunts, trying to find safety in a House that hates him.

His letters to his parents grow stilted and short, increasingly formal and distant. He is sure they can tell he is almost maddened with distress and frustration (They won’t leave him alone, _why can’t they just leave him alone?)_ , with loneliness (He doesn’t want to be alone, he always has been, he thought maybe he’d make some _friends_ in this country…), with betrayal (That Vaisey boy said he’d be his friend and then he just- he-).

It is… the feeling of betrayal, he thinks, that is the worst.

He had come to Britain with the hope that someone would look past his ingrained lack of facial expressions. The children in Germany, they were either purebloods as stoic as he was, or Halfbloods and Mundane-born who don’t understand; he could choose between cold, calculating conversation or intimidated whispers that soon transformed into scathing insults.

But it is the same here.

“Why is your face like that, Bastion?”

“Do you even know how to smile?”

“You’re looking down on me, aren’t you?”

“Stop being so smug, you prig! What? Not gonna say anything back?”

“Can’t even say anything back, can he? What a freak.”

“Freak.”

“Like a statue.”

“Or a gargoyle. Never does anything, just stares.”

“Probably slow in the head, too.”

“Go back to Germany, Bastion. You’re really not bringing anything to Britain but your glares, you know.”

“Why doesn’t he ever react? What a joke!”

“Weakling.”

“Stupid.”

“Are these letters to your _parents?_ Are you a baby, then, Bastion?”

“Ha! As if he has anyone else to write to! Don’t even have friends in your actual country, do you, loser?”

And so on.

(He has been trained since _birth_ to kill his feelings, to hide them, to _only express_ when he feels safe and the other party is worthy and there is true _substance_ and importance to what he feels. A lord must be calm and collected, and it is only under extenuating circumstances that he was allowed to smile in delight or cry in frustration or frown in anger when he was young. He _cannot_ express, not when he is surrounded by enemies and they will use what he feels against him.)

He cannot reach outwards to the the other Houses, because he wears green and silver and in this country, in this school, that is a sign that he cannot be trusted. He cannot reach inwards to his own House because he cannot express what he feels, he cannot bring himself to throw away the training his parents — affectionately, if sternly — gave him. He cannot turn to the teachers, whose looks are pitying and humiliating or cold and uncaring. He cannot turn to anyone in this damned, _small_ place with even smaller people even if he wants to, desperately.

By the time he sees her the second time — truly _looks_ at her, because glancing as she, too, is tripped in the hallways and her things are taken into her hands more worn than they already were, does not count as _looking_ at the entity that is his leader — he is on the verge of withdrawing from this damned school and returning to Germany. In his country, though his peers sneer at his half-French blood or gaze enviously at his status or mirror his own cold countenance, at least he will be treated decently. Perhaps not warmly, but he should not have expected something he was raised to hide away.

But he does look at her the second time.

And she looks at him, too; for the first time, he thinks.

It’s… embarrassing to remember, for sure. His temper is frayed and he so craves privacy that he trusts that empty classroom as soon as he thunders in. His words and hands are harsh as he tried to clean up the ink that exploded in his bag — a gift from his parents, for luck, for success, for finding that he was looking for, a failed gift, look at how tattered it is — and he doesn’t notice her there. (He learns later that she performs Notice-Me-Nots often, to keep away from the bullying of others, and it’s one of the first things she teaches him when he gains the courage to ask.)

“I thought you were German.” were her first words to him.

He almost hexes her, his hand on his wand and his blood already boiling in anger, but her hair is distinctive. He remembers that it flashes in and out of his peripheral during the day, never a color that taunts him or attacks him — though it’s a shade quite close to that Rookwood boy’s, just a bit brighter and obviously shorter-shorn. It’s only that, knowing that she has never directly attacked him and always has a look of distaste when she sees the effects of the others’ campaign against him — he cannot remember if she is ever on-looking as it happens, as Rookwood is — that stops him from snarling at her and leaving immediately.

“Weasley,” he calls, remembering her surname only because of how much ridicule is directed at the mostly-Gryffindor set of siblings, “What do you want?”

(They always want something.)

(Always.)

She has an odd expression on her face. Then she shrugs. “I was here first- Oi, you don’t have to leave, Bastion, I don’t own the place. Merlin. Here-”

He doesn’t remember much after that. Only that she approaches him and tries to help and it sets his nerves on edge because _no one helps._ He looks for every and any excuse to hiss at her, to make her _go away_ , and then he runs. He can’t take another Lucas Vaisey, sympathetic smiling and Nathaniel Wilkes’ scheming behind him, he can’t take the cold looks of the upper years, Bole whispering hexes into Sebastian Flint’s ears that come out of his wand afterwards, cutting his homework and papers and hands. He can’t.

He just wanted to see if this place would be different from home. It is. It’s _worse_ , and all Dietrich Bastion wants to do is _go home._

 

**…**

 

Dietrich loses track after that.

The next class, that odd girl Guinevere Weasley takes Rookwood’s normal spot beside him in Potions and smiles at him- no, _grins_ at him, smile crooked but true, and speaks to him as naturally as she would her brothers and sister. He’s immediately suspicious, because he knows she speaks in short-but-polite sentences most of the time, nodding to those who have done no wrong to her, glowering coldly at the backs of those who do, only _grinning_ at her older brothers or her older sister or that small, strange girl in Ravenclaw, the blonde he saw with her the first time. Guinevere Weasley, however, treats him just outside of being that close to her, that close to being her friend or family, and Dietrich _burns_ with mistrust and longing.

And she brings that bright, warm, inane _chatter_ with her in _every class._ She sits beside him in _every class._ It evidently frees Rookwood, who was shoved at Dietrich for being the least likely to protest being near the Slytherin pariah, but a part of Dietrich _misses_ the quiet, if not the tension, that Rookwood brought. Guinevere… puts him on edge. 

He wants to know how far she’ll go; she is obviously doing this to trick him somehow, to betray him like Vaisey, and the more it hurts him the more ingrained into the main group of Slytherins she will be. He holds her at arm’s reach and wishes he could toss her away completely. 

He tries. _He does_. He ignores her and snaps at her in turn, but she must have Occlumency training because _nothing he says_ causes the reaction he wants. It drives him mad, because she shrugs it off and draws him into conversation so easily, remarking on this or that subject, hinting at knowing things that would undoubtedly help him in classes, and he has to pursue her. It’s manipulative and frighteningly clever, the way she reads him, the way she edges around the mask he was raised to carve into his face and get underneath.

By the third day, he stops snapping at her. He decides to wait, decides to try to milk her information for what it’s worth and get out before she can hurt him.

By the tenth day, he finds himself intrigued by how damnably _brilliant_ Guinevere Weasley is. He initiates the conversation half the time, careful but more curious than that. She grins at him and Dietrich finds himself relaxing at the sight of it.

By the sixteenth day, Dietrich expects her to take her place next to him. He is getting the hang of her studying tips, learning how she color codes notes and abbreviates words in the margins of her old textbooks. He is also learning all the spells she can teach, and is amazed at how accurately she can tell if he’s doing something wrong; even the subtlest of wand movements, she knows if he was off. And odder than that, he trusts her when she says that once he gets the perfect movement down, he can be lazier, his magic will know what he wants to do.

(He trusts her. It’s… frightening.)

“Hey, Bastion! Where are you going?”

She’s running up to him after they’ve returned from classes for the day. Weasley is lucky, in that she has no roommates; she can leisurely enter and exit her room. Dietrich does not have that luxury. At least, he thinks, she casts the Featherlight Charm on his things whenever he looks a bit more tired than usual; and he can’t believe it’s pity, really, because Weasley does the same thing to her own bag — in this case, it’s _fairness,_ she tells him often.

“To eat,” he answers honestly; Weasley is an honest person when she’s comfortable with someone, it makes it difficult to lie to her maliciously. Fair is fair, after all.

Weasley frowns, a puzzled expression on her face. “Dinner’s not any time soon, though?”

Dietrich hesitates. Then, he mutters for only her ears, “I do not eat in the Great Hall at the assigned times.”

He cannot, because then he would starve. Well, perhaps not now; he occasionally eats with Weasley, when she does not explicitly state she will eat with her brothers and sister or her Ravenclaw friend. But before Weasley — and it is both amusing and sad that his Hogwarts experience can already be divided into before-her and after-her — he couldn’t trust anything within reach of Vaisey or Wilkes or Malfoy. Now, though… well, Weasley is strangely good at detecting pranks and tricks of that sort, stating that her brothers taught her constant vigilance, and he finds it safe to eat at the Slytherin table again, as long as she is there.

Weasley nods, and he knows that she understands the reasons immediately. She is clever like that. Her mouth runs off on its own when she doesn’t watch it, but Weasley is very, very aware of the people surrounding her.

“I eat in the kitchens,” he says quietly, “The House Elves… are welcoming.”

_When everyone else is not,_ he doesn’t say. Doesn’t need to say.

Weasley’s eyes flicker with a bit of indignation, glancing towards the common room that they are just outside of, but she beams. “How’d you find the kitchens, then, Bastion? My brothers — prats, you know — wouldn’t tell me where they were.”

“Are these the twins?”

“All my brothers are prats, one way or another, but yes.”

Dietrich nods. “Professor Snape dropped some… hints.”

She copies the motion, looking pleased. “He’s a good Slytherin House Head, that one,” she says cheerfully, “I’m sure you’re his favorite anyways, in our year. He always likes the ones who are good at his subject. If Fred and George weren’t so utterly destructive, I reckon Snape would like them, too, honestly. Even if he never showed it, since they’re Gryffs.”

“…I find it difficult to imagine Professor Snape and your… demon twins… getting along.”

Weasley grins playfully. “Who said anything about getting along?”

He snorts.

And then he pauses. That’s the closest he’s ever gotten to laughing since he can remember. At home, in _Schwarzvogelschloss_ , it’s not uncommon. His mother shares his stony disposition and humor, they are similar in that regard. His father can often coax his close shades of expressions out with his babbling French. But here…

Weasley is smiling at him like she’s just been told all her siblings are coming to visit her with flowers and chocolate and books full of spells she wants to learn. Like he’s given her a gift or she’s earned something incredible. Just because… He didn’t even _laugh_ , but she still looks so unbearably pleased with him that it makes his head spin.

“Would you like to accompany me?”

The words leave his mouth before he realizes it.

Weasley’s eyes widen, and she looks stunned but not… not disgusted, or horrified, or reluctant, or any of the emotions Dietrich supposes he was half-expecting, for no reason at all.

“To the Kitchens? To eat with you?” she says, brightening with every word.

Dietrich thinks he should be more embarrassed than he is. It is unlike him, to say things or act without careful consideration beforehand; that is part of the reason his _peers —_ a term he uses lightly in this small place — say that he is stupid or slow, aside from his previously-declining grades. (He is second in the year, behind Weasley and just ahead of Rookwood. It is a position he will guard jealously.)

But he is of the House Bastion, his mother of the House Rolfhauser, a pureblood _heir_ , and he will not take back his words. He means them.

So Dietrich nods. “…Yes. Tilly will welcome another to feed.” He pauses, thinking of the Elf that so often tries to stuff him with food and mends his things when she spots their wear and tear; she tuts at him when he goes to the Kitchens for meals too often. “She will delighted that you are why I do not go down there so often, I think.”

Weasley’s eyes glint with humor. “Why’ve I got this funny feeling you were adopted by a House Elf named Tilly?”

Dietrich snorts again. “House Elves. Dagby and Effas will be most upset if I neglect to mention their care as well.”

She grins widely. “I think I’m going to like meeting them. Lead the way?”

He does.

(It doesn’t occur to him until much later that this moment is when he truly began to trust Guinevere Weasley; he gave her the path to his only sanctuary and his only quasi-friends in this entire country. She does not ever take anyone there without him being aware, and the funny thing is, he does not think it is a conscious decision on her part. ‘The Kitchens are Dietrich’s safe place’ is surely her mindset, and she guards that as viciously as she does him.

It makes him want to smile.)

 

**…**

 

Julius corners him one day; they all do, Harper and Lucas right behind him.

“You’re acting weird.” starts Lucas, painfully blunt.

If Dietrich is honest, everyone is acting ‘weird’. It is _weird_ that the idiot follower Harper so easily detached himself from the larger Slytherin first-year pack, turned to Guinevere and himself, followed them. It is _weird_ that he nearly tied for Julius Rookwood for third place in academics until the boy also turned away from that same group. It is _weird_ that Julius Rookwood took him aside all those weeks ago to quietly apologize for his treatment. It is _weird_ that Lucas Vaisey, who was the self-proclaimed leader of the old pack, now looks to Guinevere and Dietrich for leadership and help and friendship — things Guinevere extends in spades as long as Dietrich does the same, albeit much more hesitantly.

It is _weird_ that these are his friends now. The boy who betrayed him, the boy who watched it happen, and the boy who laughed as it did. Dietrich would go as far as to say that if some such thing happened again, they would descend on the offender with wands and snarls, on Guinevere’s heels. It is _weird_ that Dietrich would do that same, that Dietrich wakes up without dread pooling in his stomach because Julius and Lucas are already up in their room and urging him to hurry so they can meet Harper and Guinevere.

But more importantly.

It is _weird_ that Guinevere — who so warmly twists Julius’ hair into a braid and tells him he is the loveliest person she knows, who so diligently draws out schedules for Harper so the boy can complete his studies without hinderance from his ADHD problem, who so eagerly sneaks out at night so she can watch Lucas fly and bring him water and granola bars to eat — would discard the affection they return to her, invade their privacy with desperate, near-crazed eyes, the excuse of _I need to find my diary, Dietrich!_ on her tongue.

“I am acting as a normally do.” Dietrich replies to Lucas.

“Don’t lie.” Julius reprimands softly.

He makes a frustrated noise. (His temper is so much close to the surface when he is with people he trusts, when he does not sleep.) “I am not lying.”

And the thing is, he isn’t. 

Dietrich still finds his head spinning when he thinks about the transitions: from pariah to ally to friend to tutor to leader to _Second._ He treasures his position as Guinevere’s Second, as her most trusted, as the one the other boys turn to when she retreats for some well-earned solitude. He holds onto that trust and that friendship, and if he emulates his father — and, amusingly, his new leader/crush — a bit and obsesses over protecting them to the best of his ability, mentally and physically both, who can blame him?

He has known loneliness, and he has known hurt, and now that he has people — _friends_ — who make it seem like such things have never existed and never will again, _he will protect them._

This is how he does not lie. Guinevere is acting odd, so he will find out why and he will _fix it_ because that is what he took onto himself when he became her Second. He chose to be her right hand, her greatest support, and no amount of fluttering heartbeats or flushed cheeks or fixation on her crooked smile will take away from that.

“You don’t sleep,” Julius says quietly, “I hear you when you get up in the middle of the night, Dietrich. I don’t know where you go since you keep casting Notice-Me-Nots, but you barely sleep. You’re snappish.”

“More than usual.” Lucas adds.

Harper has that scolded look on his face, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip and his eyes wide with concern. Guinevere has often given into his demands for breaks or performing magic because of this look.

“And you and Guinevere aren’t… talking. Is it because she invaded our rooms?” Harper asks.

“That is part of it.” replies Dietrich stiffly.

“She felt bad about it, you know.” Lucas says, shrugging, “Whatever you said to her, she was right and proper scolded about it. Agreed to go flying to apologize and everything! You two should hurry up and stop fighting. The other Houses might not notice ‘cos they’re all stupid, but Slytherin does. That’s the only one that matters, yeah?”

Harper laughs at that.

Julius steps up, looking almost pleading. “Guinevere doesn’t know why you’re angry with her, Dietrich.”

Lucas snorts. “You know her. She lets her guard down around us, becomes as oblivious and rash as a Gryffie. If you two got into a shouting match, just tell her she was being stupid and since it’s been a bit, her head’s on straight enough that she’ll apologize.”

“Apologies will not fix this.” Dietrich growls.

“What will, then?”

Dietrich snaps, “She’s hiding something from us!”

_Something dangerous,_ he thinks furiously, _something that makes her betray everything she stands for. She would never betray any of our trust unless it was dangerous enough, and how can I be a good Second if I cannot help her through or out of such a thing?_

Lucas rolls his eyes. “She’s a _girl_ , Dietrich. The only girl in our year. Er, in our House at least. Obviously she’s hiding things. Girl things.”

“And with her being on the outs with her Gryffie twin, she’s probably more secretive.” Harper adds.

“Please just try to confront her on whatever’s bothering you?” Julius asks. “We don’t want to take sides because neither of you want any of us to know, so it’s not our right, but Dietrich… it’s not just that you’re the Second and she’s our leader. We’re all… friends, aren’t we?”

He knows that look, that tone, that hopeful hesitance. They all had it at one point, even Guinevere. It was in her eyes when he asked if she’d like to accompany him to the Kitchens for the first time. It was in his own when she reached her hand out to him with that crooked grin and casual manner, albeit his hope was layered with anger and distrust and spite. It was in Harper’s face when Guinevere asked him if he’d like her to tutor him, too. It was in Lucas’ when Guinevere first started bringing him things to support his late-night Quidditch practices.

It is always, always in Julius’ face. He has still never believed that this is real.

Such a look only strengthens Dietrich’s resolve.

_More hours in the library,_ he thinks, _More books. I need to know what it is. I need to know what Guinevere has done. I need to help her. I need to fix this. I need to._

Dietrich promises to try harder.

He keeps that promise.

 

**…**

 

He knows what the diary is.

_Soul-stealer._

 

**…**

 

_She could have been dead._

Guinevere tells him she’s had the diary since the summer before Hogwarts.

_She could have died in her home and I would never had met her._

She tells him of everything the creature has whispered to her, all the knowledge it’s tempted her — successfully — with.

_I would have never been her Second._

There are bitter, quieter, shameful parts where she admits she thought they — warm, living, breathing, grinning Guinevere and the _monster_ in a book — might’ve been friends. Of a sort. She says that sometimes she misses it and isn’t that hilariously stupid, Dietrich? You were right.

_I would never have been anyone’s Second. Anyone’s friend._

“It was never meant to put anyone else in danger,” she said quietly, “I never meant to put anyone else in danger. I wanted the information, I decided I would risk myself for it. It was my responsibility.”

_I would have been alone if you weren’t here, you stupid girl._

Dietrich is a pureblood of Germany and France, of House Rolfhauser and House Bastion. He has been trained since birth to hold back his vulnerabilities, to hide them, because the world was such that it would grip onto such weaknesses and _tear._ He knows this. He has known this. He does not say everything he thinks. He doesn’t even say half of it.

“Why do you think it is acceptable to sacrifice yourself?”

Her face twitches, as if she is confused and amused and sad all at once. She settles on a sad smile. “‘Cos if it was a choice between me and mine, you know what I’d choose. Gryffindors really do like raising martyrs, you know.”

Dietrich takes a breath. Her attempt at humor is used, this time, to deflect.

This is alright. This is an acceptable level of secretiveness, deflection in the face of whatever unreal power it is that drives his leader to hoard the ones she calls hers like a dragon and its eggs. This is better than the obsession with the _soul-stealer._ The _soul-stealer_ that might’ve spelled out her death, and with her death, all the warmth she’s brought with her to this cold, cold House of theirs. All the things thus far accomplished and all the good days where Dietrich knows his home is back in _Schwarzvogelschloss_ but there is another, here, as well… those would be gone, she would be gone, and he doesn’t want to imagine a world where this happens.

Dietrich takes a breath.

“We’ll get it back.” he begins.

They will.

They’ll get the damn thing back. Guinevere would never forgive herself if her blunder caused a death. It is pride, yes, but it is mostly that Gryffindor nobility. Dietrich believes that is fair; responsibility is something Guinevere wears well, wears with experience. He understands this. Equality in such matters is important.

Equality. An eye or an eye, so they say in this country.

They will find the damn book. And then Dietrich will watch it burn, for the noose it has tied around her neck, even now. For the threat it has posed and still poses to the first friend he’s ever had in this world.

She tells him to call her Lys. Like he is family. He does so, and they somehow get themselves out of the classroom the others tricked them into for their — frankly — quite therapeutic and much-needed talk.

He practices all the fire and shredding spells he knows after that. Julius helpfully shows him the Darker versions. He perfects them in the dead of the night, while he enjoys the closeness with his friend and leader — all of them do — in the light of the day. The soul-stealer is going to burn by his wand. That is a promise.

 

**…**

 

He doesn’t keep that promise.

When he walks in to speak to Malfoy, to try to get answers from the boy’s mouth and finally end this, he knows there is something wrong. Malfoy is arrogant and obnoxious on a good day, and oddly expressive for being the pureblood heir of such a prominent House. If he isn’t sneering, his face is set into a rather poor imitation of what Dietrich assumes is his father’s smug expression. The boy takes care of his appearance, even as he seems withdrawn and angry lately.

Malfoy looks like he is a puppet held up by strings. Mechanical and unnatural and oddly limp.

Dietrich hides his surprise and suspicion behind his stoic mask.

“I wanted to speak with you, Malfoy.” he says.

Malfoy replies, his voice stilted. “Oh? What of, Bastion?”

The boy he knows does not speak that collectedly, not to someone like Lys’ Second. Dietrich fingers his wand handle, strapped to the pockets of his robe, hidden but prepared. He gives nothing away.

“Of Parkinson.” Dietrich says, “And of how she started your fall from grace.”

“Started, yet incomplete. I haven’t fallen yet.”

Too eloquent. Too smooth. 

“You fell the moment you decided to oppose Lys,” Dietrich says carelessly, almost flippantly.

Malfoy’s mouth pulls into a barely-there smile. “So loyal. So faithful. How easily she twists you around her fingers.”

A flare of anger in his chest lights and then is forcefully spluttered. This is not the time to defend his friend and leader as vehemently as he would like, his instinct tells him. That is not something Malfoy would ever say. 

_What are you going to do about it?_ he asks himself.

(He wonders later if this is what Lys was faced with, with the book in her hands. Danger staring her in the face, people she needs to protect at her back, no means to fight, but not enough time or experience to know who to turn to for help — help that is not wanted, is shameful to accept, but is needed. He wonders if this caging, suffocating, fearful thing in his chest was in hers, too.)

There are fire spells in his head and he is gripping his wand now, hiding the motion in the guise of polite poise, folded hands.

Malfoy smiles, a tilt of his lips. “But Guinevere trusts so easily. So freely. Casts her protection on anyone who she thinks deserves it. That is going to kill her one day.”

Dietrich understands in an instant. 

_Soul-stealer._

“ _ADUSTIO!”_ he roars.

A jet of gold-crimson fire flies from the tip of his wand, coiling and running like a Chinese Fireball flies. Dietrich sweats from the heat of it, winces from the power it rips from his core — Lys, if she knew he was working on this spell, would definitely be angry that he’s pushed himself to near magical exhaustion with it — and struggles to control the tongue of fire, more unruly than any whip its designed to copy. It slams into a perfectly formed shield, too powerful to be a _Protego_ , and Dietrich tries to wrap the flames around it, squeeze pressure into the faintly-glowing white barrier, shatter it and catch the diary aflame.

He can see it now, Malfoy’s arm raised for his silently-casted shield, the book in the folds of his robes.

Malfoy chuckles. “My, my. How violent and astute. Were I truly Draco Malfoy, don’t you think such a Dark spell might’ve killed him?”

“I know you are not him, _connard!_ I know what you are. How long were you planning to wear her skin, just as you are doing to Malfoy? Filthy _soul-stealer.”_ he grits out, his flaming whip sputtering as his concentration loosens.

The soul-stealer’s shield holds, and he looks just as relaxed as he was a minute ago. Dietrich’s dislike for the thing rises sharply, from just that smug look alone. He feels something behind his breastbone twinge in pain. Guinevere tells him enough about magical exhaustion for him to recognize it from just the fatigue alone; this more acute warning sign does not fly over his head. He knows he should disengage, that the spells is too strong for him — a small part of his brain wonders how Julius has mastered such a spell, among many similar others, at this point — but if the soul-stealer gets the chance, he will strike.

Dietrich knows very few shield spells, and most of the powerful ones are wards that Guinevere has taught him. Those take time, and he does not believe he has such a luxury. Not here, not with the _thing_ wearing Malfoy’s face wrongly, twisting his expressions like a puppet he does not have full control over.

“Your magic is giving, little boy,” said Malfoy’s voice coldly, amusedly.

His hairs stand on end at the sound of it. He ignores that. “If I can weaken yours, it will give Lys more to work with.” Dietrich hisses, “She will fight you, soul-stealer. She was half believing that you were her friend, but I know what sort of _creature_ you are.”

Grey eyes flash near-red. “You turned her against me.”

He ignores the spike of panic incited by that expression, Malfoy’s childish face contorted into something hateful; Malfoy is obnoxious and irritable, but Dietrich does not think the boy would ever make a face like that. His heart is beating against his breast as furiously as his core rebels against him, but he cannot back down. He is Slytherin, he is a Second, he will not allow this dangerous enemy to do as he wishes.

“Lys will never let you kill anyone, even Malfoy,” he says, “She is too noble for such a thing.”

“Another thing that will kill her,” sneers the not-Malfoy, no doubt choosing his words to unbalance Dietrich as much as possible, “Merlin save us from Gryffindor nobility. I’ll have to train that out of her.”

Dietrich can’t suppress the flash of indignation, not this time. He is too concentrated on his throbbing chest and head, his sweaty palms, the flaming whip unsuccessfully trying to crush a rounded shield. “She is not a dog to train tricks into, you _fils de pute!”_

Malfoy grins. “Oh, but she _will_ play fetch, won’t she? How willingly do you think Guinevere will walk into my arms if I’m dangling something she wants right in front of her? Something like, say… her much beloved Second.”

He snarls at the soul-stealer. “ _You can’t have her.”_

“That’s where you’re wrong, Dietrich Bastion,” the not-Malfoy laughs, “I can have whatever I want.”

The shield flares, shattering Dietrich’s concentration and spell. The fire fades away, he can breathe easily for a moment, his chest aches with too much magic use. He stumbles backwards, desperate to buy time — _I need to warn her, I need to tell her we were wrong, I need to fix this, I need to —_ and then the soul-stealer points his wand and murmurs something, that smug grin on Malfoy’s face still, and Dietrich knows no more.

 

**…**

 

Dietrich watches as she babbles under the effect of a concussion and cries in grief for a piece of garbage that doesn’t — _didn’t_ — deserve her. He watches as she scrabbles around the Chamber, leans against Potter limply, calls out for him because she can’t remember if he is okay or not. She is covered in blood and grime and tears, and Dietrich switches cargo with Potter halfway to the cave-in sight where her brother is nearly through — Ronald Weasley’s hands are covered in blood, nails cracked, and he has been clawing his way through rock in pure worry for his sister, which raises Dietrich’s opinion of the boy tenfold.

Potter takes lead with Malfoy levitating at his side, the older boy’s hands checking Malfoy’s pulse in worry every now and then. Dietrich is more worried about the quieter Lys, who he nearly drags all the way through, her wand confiscated after it started shooting out honeybees that glowed odd colors. She is still crying.

“‘M sorry,” she whispers.

“Hush, Lys,” Dietrich says, “There is nothing to be sorry for.”

“Put you in dang’r, di’nt I? Sorry, Dietrich. Sorry.”

She’s clutching at her chest. Dietrich frowns in worry. “Your core… Did you exhaust yourself, Lys? Does it hurt?”

Dietrich’s chest has been throbbing since he _Renervate_ ’d him. It feels like glass, spiderwebbed with cracks; not broken, but very fragile. He switched with Potter because it hurt to cast _Levicorpus,_ and he was worried for the girl who is his best friend.

“Hurts,” Lys whimpers, “Stole m’colors. He was red. Dark red, ’n I’m indi- in- purple. ‘M purple. He took a bit an’ now I got some red. Thrashin’. It knows th’host core’s gone, _it hurts._ ”

He almost doubles over with the pain his surge of anger brings on. His body aches, but he is furious. The soul-stealer was _this close_ to having her. Dietrich knows what Soothsayers are, of course, and he and Potter have discussed, just seconds ago, that her ranting about colors is likely a sign that Lys _is_ one — which makes so much sense, now that Dietrich thinks of it, and he cannot blame her for hiding such a powerful ability — so he knows. She’s exchanged magic with the soul-stealer. The thing left such a strong impression on her that _magic exchange_ happened.

(She will tell him later of all the shades in her magic, and how the indigo is tinged with greys sometimes and her strings flash silver, and that those are _his_ colors. It will fill him with pride, and he will ask if her own influence is in his core and Lys will smile, nodding, telling him that sometimes his blues shine indigo in the right angles.)

Her hand clutches at his shoulder, almost painfully.

“Put you in danger ’n m’sorry. My… my respons’bil’ty. You hurt ’n I’m so sorry, Dietrich. ’S okay if you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Lys.” he says softly, “Thank you for walking into danger, just to come-” (He was going to say ‘fetch’ but the word pisses him off now, makes him think of red eyes and a cold laugh.) “-get me.”

“Always,” she slurs, “M’bes’ friend. Always come get you.”

Despite himself, his chest warms. A month or so ago, his face would, too. But his fixated admiration and childish _want_ has been softened by frustration and panic — the library’s Restricted Section is not a calming place for him anymore, he thinks, not with all the soul-related books there — and it has melted into a fierce loyalty and fondness. Dietrich thinks he likes this better, this warmth, this lovely feeling of camaraderie. Not a need to be with her, or an ache to take her hand in his and press his lips to her temple as he used to think of privately, but a knowing… a knowing that she will have his back and he will have hers, and that is all they need.

“And I, you,” he replies, “Do not be guilty, Lys. You have given me much over the year. I do not think I can pay you back in this lifetime.”

She’s still crying, but it’s slower to come now. “You’re fine, yeah?”

His chest aches. Casting magic _aches._ “Aside from some bruises and cuts, I am.”

Lys relaxes a little. It makes the lie worth it.

“S’Malfoy okay?”

“…We will not know until he sees a Healer. He is alive. Unfortunately.”

She weakly bats at his arm, but is definitely smiling. “Rude.”

Dietrich shrugs, the shoulder that is not supporting her. “It is Malfoy.”

Her laugh is watery and weak. For some reason, Dietrich slots it into his brightest memories of her, between her crooked-casual grin and her reaching over to ruffle Harper’s curls the way he imagines a big sister might. A quiet and garbled and probably unremembered laugh, but it’s when he hears it that his shoulders loosen and he breathes out and knows they are all battered and bruised and a little broken, but _alive_.


	2. Dietrich (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So yeah, Dietrich I and II were one long thing which I cut in half because it was literally twice the size of my normal chapters. XD I wrote this in like 5 collective hours, over the span of a few weeks. Like I said, someone asked for an update and I felt that I should finish this bit up and give you all a consolation prize...
> 
> Again, so many damn apologies for the bad updates. :( 
> 
> Let me know what y'all think, okay? I wrote as true as I could to Dietrich, and tried to make sure you didn't reread the same scenes over and over. :) Do you guys like this sort of thing? I put a baby bit of Tom Riddle, and I know you want more of that guy, so don't worry about that. Would you guys be interested in more stuff like this, or you wanna see other POVs, etc?
> 
> Anyways. I hope you enjoyed! And will enjoy!

 

**…**

 

The year is over.

It is summer in Germany. Dietrich wishes he could leave his bed to taste the warmth himself. His mother and father have confined him to his bed, though. Neither are in the mansion-castle, busy attending to the German Ministry, but he remembers their horror when the family Healer diagnosed Dietrich’s on-and-off chest pains. Core pains.

Acute magical exhaustion. Severe enough to have fractured his core, wind back his growth a bit less than a year.

Dietrich clutches his hands in the sheets. His already-quite-small core was too strained by the _Adustio_ he cast and held for minutes. The spell is known to dueling masters, not Hogwarts students; his mother was furious that he found it and practiced it without a master or a Soothsayer to oversee him. That, coupled with quite a bit of forceful magical draining by the bastard book, and Dietrich’s core could take no more.

He cannot regret it. He did his best. He fought the soul-stealer, tried to buy time to get away. He failed, but that is how it goes. Dietrich cannot regret something that is not his fault, that is not Lys’ fault, that is only at the feet of the destroyed soul-stealer. His core is the size of a normal ten-year-old’s at this point, and he will never be able to cast the flashier spells with such a core, but this is only logical.

He is sure that all of them — Malfoy, Lys, himself — have scars rooted deep into their cores because of the soul-stealer. He cannot be the only one that is angry and grieving and frustrated. That much, he can see in Lys’ many letters of apology.

She would send so, so many if he ever told her what happened to his magic. Dietrich has no plans to tell her. He can imagine the response from her, from all of the others: Lys would probably do something stupid, try to avoid him for his own sake — she is an _idiot_ sometimes, this girl, though he loves her dearly — and the others would discuss whether they could find the remains of the diary and make a bonfire of it. Lucas and Harper would, at least. Julius might be more Lys-like, self-blaming and broody.

Dietrich wants to press his forehand into his hands. He can hear them.

_That bloody book did WHAT to your magical core? Yours and Lyssie’s? That’s it! We’re finding that damn thing and roasting it! I’ll toast bloody bread over it for Lyssie! And you, what do you want, Dietrich? Sausage? That’s a German thing, right, yeah, let’s have a bloody bonfire!_

Lucas, of course. That sounds about right.

_Oh Merlin, Dietrich are you alright? Your core… Maybe Lyssie can take a look at it, with her Mage Sight and everything. It’ll get better, right? No? Well… Well, at least you’re both alright! And you’re still the best spell-caster, besides Jay and Lyssie, so don’t worry about that! We’ll train and get you up to snuff!_

Harper. Lys has previously referred to the boy as sunshine incarnate, and Dietrich is inclined to agree.

_It’s my fault, isn’t it? I taught you that spell. I- I- It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry Dietrich! I should’ve taught you better! I’ll- I’ll think of something to fix it. My m-mother might know, or I might be able to get into my father’s old library… I’ll fix it. I’m so sorry, Dietrich, I shouldn’t have given you such a high-level spell without properly walking you through!_

Tch. Julius would be crying. Julius has a tendency to do so.

_I’m sorry. This was on my head, and I dragged you into it. I shouldn’t have told you. I said so, didn’t I? Tom didn’t want me dead. But he would’ve killed you, and that’s… that’s unforgivable. I’ve… effectively crippled you. I’m so, so,_ so _sorry Dietrich._

She would never forgive herself. In fact, he doesn’t think she’s ever forgiven herself for the bruises and cuts he has that she knows about. For something so little, Lys is still apologizing and trying to send him things to make up for her oversight. If Lys knew that his core growth was stunted?

He would not be surprised if she retreated from them, or something as equally idiotic.

He cannot regret it.

His mother is of the House Rolfhauser. The house of wolves. Dietrich and his father are and will be Paterfamilias Bastion. Fortress. It is ironic, because it is as if Dietrich was _born_ to be a loyal Second to someone — someone who would prove themselves worthy of the loyalty of a wolf, the protectiveness of a fortress. Lys is that someone, because she is just as viciously protective, just as devoted to those she calls hers; clumsy and fumbling and over-emotional, maybe, but that’s Lys. Both of Dietrich’s bloodlines were vassal houses once, and though the practice is out of favor, devotion and strength is his inheritance.

This has never been something he minded. He has never felt the call to be a leader.

“ _Je peux faire plus,_ ” Dietrich mutters to himself, gazing at the lines of his hands.

He can do more.

His core is small, but that is something he inherited from his father; his father, who has run in the French dueling tracks before. This summer, when the Healer gives their say so, he can beg his father to teach him how to maximize his effectiveness with as little magic as possible. Control techniques — Lys has lots of those, with how large and unruly her magic is, and he will ask her for them once he convinces her to stop apologizing. Control techniques and spells with little magic but lots of range. More heir training, to recognize threats more easily, to neutralize them. Physical fitness, to stimulate the growth of his core, the balance of his body.

He can do more. He can do this.

Nothing will threaten him or his ever again.

(He thinks he understands Lyssie’s adamance in addressing them like such; it makes it easier to keep track of who he’ll kill and die for, and who could be his killers or the corpses at his feet. Dietrich is almost entirely sure Lys would agree with his thoughts, fatalistic terminology and all. It is frightening, he thinks, to stare into the depths of his loyalty, which was spurred into being by Lys’ own.)

 

**…**

 

“She doesn’t know, this girl, how lucky she is to have you.” his mother says.

Dietrich is sweating, chest heaving for breath. His father is across him, wand in hand, waiting for him to rise. The main ballroom is empty and echoing, ward stones in the corners so Dietrich can duel and train properly. His mother sits in a single chair, waiting and watching.

They do not help him. He doesn’t want it.

He raises his head to his mother, whose face he inherited: cold, expressionless, pale, grey-eyed.

“This is for all of them.” he replies in harsh, gasping German.

Elisabet Bastion doesn’t smile, but Dietrich imagines that glint in her eye as something akin to the vampiric grins of Josephine Zabini. She tilts her head to one side, considering. “Be careful who you sign your life away to, my little wolf. It is brashness like this that felled so many Houses in that country of yours. Foolish children flocking to another Dark Lord.”

“She is Dark, but she has no intention of lording over a country.” Dietrich replies, managing to get to one knee.

“Perhaps a continent?” his mother asks, face blank and unreadable even to Dietrich’s practiced eyes, “Voldemort is a puddle, compared to the ocean that was Grindelwald. And Grindelwald… well, Grindelwald was kind and loyal to his followers, as well.”

Dietrich twitches. “Grindelwald wanted a new world. Lys just wants to keep hers safe.”

“And is this how she keeps you safe? Breaking your core?”

There is just the right amount of condescension and razor-thin anger that Dietrich lurches to his feet in one staggering motion, turning to glare at his mother. He cannot deny that it is some of Lys’ fault that last year happened; perhaps most of it, since the girl tried to play games with a soul-stealer and didn’t make contingency plans for when the soul-stealer played back. He cannot deny that his core is small and he is putting himself through hell to make up for it, for the injury that sometimes gives him phantom pains in the night.

“I had _no one_ until she came,” he says lowly, his voice all fueled by anger and outrage, “I had _nothing_ until she took a chance with the foreign boy at school. I wanted an ally, and I was given a friend. I’ve _never had that_ before, Mother. And when the others came, she gave me priority. I was in charge. And when the soul-stealer took me, _she didn’t hesitate_. Potter killed the basilisk for heroism, but Lys killed something she _exchanged magic with_ for me.”

The hall is silent. His father, tall and tanned and dark-featured, hasn’t said a word. Dietrich has always taken more after his mother, has her face and her demeanor and is more Rolfhauser than Bastion, to be perfectly honest. She gazes at him, searching his face for truth and other things he’s not privy to, but he knows his mother always looks at his expressionless face for truth. His mask is crafted to hide such a thing, which makes the Bastions experts at looking for it.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

_Are you sure this is who you choose to follow?_

Her eyes soften just a bit. Dietrich knows she has to consciously do this, when his eyes are the most expressive of his facial features; Lys is good at reading him already, though he is sure she cheats through Mage Sight. His mother’s porcelain mask is too strong with age and experience for what mistakes he makes — and is encouraged to make — on a daily basis.

“I am not a brainless follower. I am a Second, and she treats me as such.”

“We are vassal-blooded, little wolf,” his father puts in, French this time, “It doesn’t mean much now, but our ancestors performed the rituals hundreds and hundreds of times. It is in our blood. Once we choose our lord, it is hard to turn away.”

“I do not want to call Lys my liege lord.” Dietrich says, allowing himself to be amused.

His friend has their approval, even after the Chamber incident, and that’s all he was worried about. Perhaps the letter she wrote to them — sent through himself of course — full of groveling apologies also helped. Perhaps the fact that she has nonstop been checking to see if he is alright, and the only reason she isn’t doing more is that Dietrich is lying to her about he severity of his injuries — something his parents rather disapprove of, but will not interfere in.

Either way, they have seemed to relax at her mention. It is good.

“Don’t underestimate vassal-blood, little wolf. The runes of the rituals are imprinted into our magic. When you begin the Family Grimoire training, you will see. Certainly your liege lord will, being a Soothsayer.” his father says, a teasing smile on his face.

“Please do not continue to refer to Lys as my liege lord.”

His father laughs, bright and loud. “I don’t know.” He turns to Dietrich’s mother. “Elisabet, I rather like this girl. It is not just anyone, let alone a child, who can destroy something they have bonded cores with. Nor is it just anyone who can return our son to us, near smiling, despite his injury.”

“An injury she caused, Etienne.”

“Unintentionally, my dear. And look how hard our son is working now, to overcome it. No longer bemoaning the core he inherited from me.” Dietrich’s father smiles gently at him. “I wish you were not put in such danger so early in your life, but that is how it is. But danger like this? It opens your eyes. You see your limits now, yes? You see what you need to have to be better, to grow up to be someone to be proud of? Good. And now we will help you, and you will be better. Now you are doing something to push those limits.”

“Bah! Optimistic fool. I do not know why I married you,” his mother sighs.

“You married me exactly because I am an optimistic fool,” his father replies cheekily. Then he beams at Dietrich. “Are you ready, little wolf? Need to sharpen your claws and teeth before summer ends, so your liege lord can put her trust in you again.”

“It was the girl’s fault. She apologized and we accepted, but that still stands.” Elisabet butts in, stubbornly clinging to a grudge that Dietrich knows she is already losing grip on. His mother probably knows this as well.

“And so it was. But the vassal should not need rescuing.” His father smiles sharply, roguish and hard, “And if your liege lord is so caring as you say, she will treat you like glass. You are not glass, Dietrich. Are you?”

Dietrich steels himself, wand in hand. He remembers the feel of the _Adustio_ , the pulling magic, the tongues of fire, the sweat beading on his forehead. A memory of pain crosses his chest, and he ignores it.

“No,” Dietrich says, “I am not.”

His parents are right to be concerned. He himself is always surprised at the level of ferocity Lys displays when she protects them, when she terrified Ravenclaws into silence for sneering at Lovegood, when the older Slytherins who pick on her brothers have mottled skin and skittish eyes when she approaches. And his own fanatic protectiveness, spurred by vassal blood and years of loneliness, is matching her?

Yes, they can be worried. But he doesn’t think he’s made the wrong decision. Someone who encourages and pushes and makes him stronger, who cries for his cuts and bruises, who sends apology after apology for something so _accidental_ … someone like that is worth following. And his friends, Julius and Harper and Lucas, they are also training; not as intensely as he is, not for such a deep and personal purpose, but they are all contemplating on how to become as dangerous as their leader, in different ways.

(It stings them, he thinks, that Dietrich was trusted with the soul-stealer’s story and not them. They understand, and he is their Second, but he knows it probably hurts that they were kept out of the loop for not being enough. He would be hurt. He would try harder.)

The session finishes, Dietrich’s magic is spent. His father and mother help him to his room, embarrassingly enough. His father compliments him on his spell repertoire and the economy of his magic usage in that regard — “Lys teaches us very well, because she is a Soothsayer.” — and says that they will work on critical thinking, on-your-feet thinking, the sort of thing Dietrich doesn’t quite excel at. His mother puts her hand on his shoulder, looking soft and proud for once.

“I suppose she cannot be so bad, if this is the result of your meeting,” his mother says in German quietly.

An odd thought occurs to Dietrich. Probably Lucas’ influence.

“I don’t have a crush on her,” he says bluntly, “I grew out of it.”

His mother’s shoulders seem to relax, his father bursting into laughter. Dietrich sighs to himself; of course that’s what that was all about. That, and his mother has always been the overprotective sort. He thinks that if she and Lys met, it would either be a beautiful friendship, or something from a horror story. Or a dueling circuit.

Perhaps he’ll wait on the introductions.

 

**…**

 

Fucking dementors.

Dietrich doesn’t think he could hate them anymore, and then they go and make Lys and Julius catatonic. Julius snaps out of his daze in three minutes, but Lys? No, she trembles and cries silently, seeing horrors that the rest of them cannot guess at; she’s so cold that Lucas volunteers to huddle up with her, trying to make her body remember that it’s alive. Dietrich’s own memories flashed to the years of loneliness, Lucas’ distasteful prank last year, Wilkes’ cutting words, feeling his core splinter because of a soul-stealer, and finally waking up in the Chamber of Secrets to a bloody, babbling Lys. They’re horrible memories that make him freeze and grit his teeth, but the others…

The others are worse off, he thinks, and he pulls himself together because he did NOT train all summer to be defeated by post-traumatic stress disorder incarnate.

(He wonders what Lys saw, and has seen, that makes her unresponsive for hours upon hours.)

(He wonders if he really wants to know.)

It can all be summed up into two words, the train ride to their second year.

“Fucking dementors,” he snarls in French.

Harper hiccups as Dietrich cusses in his favorite language, the boy entirely understanding of it. Julius and Lucas have probably guessed as to what he means — it’s two words, after all. Not hard to figure it out. And Dietrich admits to having a colorful French vocabulary, accidental courtesy of his father.

Lys hasn’t moved. Her freckles — as few of them as she has, compared to her siblings — are stark against her skin, eyes wide. The blue seems almost dulled when he glances over (flinches), not lively or sharp or anything else she usually is. It unnerves them all. Even when Lys just sits to the side and reads, getting some solitude while also being able to listen to the chaos they create together, it’s not as dead as this.

She wakes up later and tries to reassure them she’s alright. Dietrich has never seen her terrified, let alone terrified into _unresponsiveness._ They force her to go to the Hospital Wing, ignoring the novelty of the self-driving carriages. She’s still shaking when they walk in, just a few seconds after Harry Potter and his own people. The older boy looks pale, too, pale and wide-eyed. 

Fucking. Dementors.

 

**…**

 

Dietrich hates Nathaniel Wilkes.

…

That does not feel like enough.

Dietrich _fucking hates_ Nathaniel Wilkes.

He knows that it was by Wilkes’ hand that most of his suffering last year came to be. The bad kind. Pranks with ink and torn-up homework, Dietrich thinks is not so bad. But the isolation, the whispers, the staring and laughing, the taunting about his face, the stealing of his letters, his textbooks, Lucas’ betrayal prank… Things that he cannot replace are gone. Things that are dear to him were mocked.

And he was so, so alone.

Nathaniel Wilkes has a tongue of silver blades, a face whose every micro-expression is under his control, and connections stemming from his childhood to most major pureblood houses. The boy is not a leader, but the power behind one. A manipulator that knows just what to say to cut someone down or to build someone up.

Dietrich does not want this boy near his friends, near his best friend. He does not want to allow this poisonous rot into their sanctuary, into _his_ sanctuary. Wilkes can be kind and cruel and Dietrich knows the cruel and has seen the kind; they switch between themselves as easily as the boy breathes, and that sort of unpredictability within their midst is dangerous.

He is not so skilled at quick reactions, not yet. He likes to sit and think over things, stew in his thoughts, come to conclusions that way. The rush of information — diary, soul-stealer, Malfoy, Parkinson, Lys-could’ve-been-dead — last year is partly why things turned out so badly; Dietrich has bad knee-jerk reactions. Wilkes does not, and Dietrich cannot be a true protector of his friends if he cannot keep an eye on the threat properly.

But he gives his permission, because after what Harper says about second chances, how could he not?

Lucas had been on nearly his third chance, if Dietrich is honest, and he supposes that adage of ‘Third times the charm’ does work in this respect. It would be an odd and empty world if Lucas had not crawled to their influence when he did, and now the boy walks among them proudly.

Still, though. It bothers him.

Harper is his oldest friend besides Lys, and though he is in a different dormitory, the boy often sneaks into theirs just because he can. It is Harper, of course, who sees through him immediately, Lucas and Julius out to fetch Lys to their favorite classroom early for a meeting sans Wilkes.

Harper jumps on Dietrich’s bed, making himself at home, his usual wide smile shrunken into a pensive sort of look. “You really, really don’t like Wilkes, do you, Dietrich?” asks the boy, voice tinged with concern.

“I do not.” Dietrich replies stiffly.

Harper, the utter child, swings his legs like one. Mindlessly, probably, with the boy’s need to move _all the time._ Which he can’t be blamed for, of course. “Hey, did you know?” Harper asks, “When we first met, I really didn’t like you.”

Dietrich twitches. He is not hurt by the statement, because he knows Harper enjoys his company now very much, and he knows also that he comes off as a very cold person, because of his Occlumency training. He hums in response.

“And I know it was wrong to bully you like that — just because I have power, doesn’t mean I should use it to hurt someone who’s never even provoked me, right? Lyssie hasn’t ever said it like that, but that’s something she’s taught me. All of us, I guess.” Harper muses to himself, “But I guess because I was dumb, I thought you being all… yourself _was_ an insult, see, and so me and Lu and the others were horrid to you. I’m still sorry for it, Dietrich. I think I’ll always be. Me and Lu and Jay. Maybe Wilkes too, once Lyssie gets him!”

Dietrich scoffed. “Wilkes would not regret causing pain. He likes it, and that’s why I don’t want him near any of you.”

“I don’t want him hurting you either, Dietrich. But I think we’ll be okay. We didn’t have Lyssie last time, and now we do. She’ll set us all to rights. Anyways, you distracted me!” Harper frowned, trying to think back. “Erm… I don’t know, I was just rambling. Did it help?”

He snorts softly — Dietrich can’t remember the last time he’s laughed like most people, but this is his version, and it happens so often with his friends that he can’t keep track of it. Harper is clumsy and well-meaning and, as Lys likes to put it, an accidental genius. One will never be able to describe Harper as someone who knows just what to say, because Harper _doesn’t_ know; he says the right things anyway. In this case, whatever roundabout version of comfort he had, Harper managed to soothe Dietrich’s nerves, all set on edge by Nathaniel Wilkes.

Whom he hates. A lot.

But less so than twenty seconds ago.

“I think it did.” Dietrich mutters. Then he turns a dry glance on Harper. “Though most of your ramblings were describing the reasons you and the others despised me last year.”

Harper jumps up in a panic. “What? No! Sorry! That’s not how I meant it! It’s just- We just- Opinions and people change, Dietrich, that’s all! And it’s hard and stuff, but we’ve got Lyssie, and she just seems to bring out that sort of change, doesn’t she? And if she doesn’t, she’ll kick Wilkes off. You know she will. We’re her favorites, though I guess you’re her ultimate favorite- Oh, but she really, really likes my hair, she loves ruffling it, so maybe I should grow it out and she can braid it just like Jay’s? But that’d be odd, wouldn’t it-”

He rambles on and on. Lys chatters similarly, but she has a stop and go mood to it — Harper doesn’t ever stop, it seems. It’s one of the more exhausting traits about the boy, though Dietrich knows they all take after Lys and her tired fondness for it anyways.

Dietrich thinks Harper is right, though. Lys does like to incite change, doesn’t she? Though she never purposefully sets out for it. Just like with how her fierce loyalty inspired his own, he thinks people see parts in her that they want, too, and for some reason she manages to get them to bring it out. It must be magic inherent to her blood or something; subtle enough that it isn’t remarked on, strong enough that the effect is real. Some sort of liege lord counterpart to the old folktales of vassal-blood, perhaps?

Hm. It’s rubbing off on him. His parents have never stopped referring to Lys, jokingly, as his liege lord. She would be mortified.

“Question,” Dietrich murmurs, half interrupting Harper’s rant.

Harper perks up. It is usually him that brings that word to attention, but it’s usually used when they’re all together, and it’s more convenient for one person to break off from their homework or their studies to answer than all of them voicing out answers over each other.

“Answer!” Harper crows.

“If Wilkes does betray us, what will we do?”

Harper frowns. “What do you mean? Lyssie will boot him.”

Dietrich raises a brow. “That is what _she_ will do. You know that is a light punishment for such a potentially crippling maneuver. What will _we_ do?”

“You’re asking me?”

“You are Lys’ left hand. If she and I both fail, we all expect you to take charge.”

Harper looks stunned. “I- But- Jay is so much smarter, and Lu is more popular, and- and-”

Dietrich gives him a look. “Why is this surprising to you? Lys and I have always thought this. You are always at her left flank, while I am at her right. Julius and Lucas may scold and joke with you, but they have never tried to take that place. And it will be _over my dead body_ that Wilkes gets such a position. You are the most trusted to our leader, after myself.”

The smile Harper gives is more like sunshine than usual. Blinding, almost. “Well, if Wilkes does betray us, I think we’ll both give him a stern talking to. In French, like how you spoke to him earlier. Which was rather terrifying, Dietrich, you can’t say that you’re going to break people left and right as you wish. And then I think once Lyssie’s the _parvus_ reigning, we’ll isolate him, put him out of allies, and sabotage him just enough that he’ll be at the bottom of class rankings for at least a year or two. Ought to make career applications rather hesitant in the future!”

“Oh? Is that how it is done in this country?”

Harper nods enthusiastically. “You’ll be fine if you want to work with the British Ministry, because struggling in first year but then overcoming it later is all well and good. But Wilkes is near the top of the class and if he goes under for a bit, it’ll be obvious he either messed up badly and the _parvus_ reigning caught him or he isn’t disciplined enough to maintain good grades. Depends on who’s reviewing his application — Slytherin employers are usually good about catching the former.”

Dietrich squints at Harper. “Slytherin networking is very frightening. And this is a very long-reaching consequence.”

The boy shrugs. “Badly executed betrayal is really serious, you know? And besides-” His smile turns particularly feral here- “you’re my leader’s Second, and you’re my friend. When you say you’re going to break someone, then the least I can do is hold him down, yeah?”

They go to the abandoned classroom after that, where the others are waiting. Dietrich has this warmth in his gut, because he knows that Harper is just as loyal as he is even if he doesn’t show it as obviously as Dietrich has to; the warmth is mixed with a bit of terror, too. It’s hard to imagine Harper being angry with anyone, or even holding a grudge, but Dietrich thinks he just saw a glimpse of what that’d look like.

 

**…**

 

They are all snakes here, but Nathaniel Wilkes is the most serpentine of them. He sidles up to Dietrich like a boat navigating rocky-filled rapids, settling beside him as if he belongs there. Dietrich feels his metaphorical hackles raise.

“You look quite frowny, don’t you, dear Second?” says the boy, pushing his glasses up.

“Say your piece then leave, Wilkes.” Dietrich replies.

Nathaniel Wilkes smirks — none of his smiles are anything more, or anything less. “You, more than anyone, seem… upset… by the positioning when we make our _potesta_ claim.”

Dietrich resists the urge to grit his teeth. “You are taking Harper’s place.”

“The position of left hand doesn’t officially exist.”

“Unofficially it belongs to him.” Dietrich snaps. “Do not think that your place here means we trust you.”

Wilkes shrugs. “I don’t want trust. I want position.” He smiles. “And your lovely leader gives me just that, doesn’t she? Even if her coup fails, the balance of power will be shaky. Shaky enough that anyone could crawl to power.”  


Dietrich feels himself tense at the implications. And his own suspicions, which are geared towards such a realistically cutthroat reality, he counts them as implications.

“You are like a scavenger, Wilkes” Dietrich snarls, “picking at the remains of others, at the garbage your betters leave behind. Do as most scavengers do, and don’t provoke us.”

“I don’t provoke my betters, Bastion. I make nice with them.” _The only one better than me here is your leader,_ is what is implied.

But the way Wilkes plays on the edge of ally and threat, the way he annoys Lys and Dietrich and all the rest just because he can, the way he watches them and assesses and plots… Dietrich doesn’t believe for an instant that Wilkes respects them, respects Lys. It is infuriating that such a heartless, cunning boy rests in their heart of organization, will have Lys’ left hand when they sweep through Malfoy’s claim to _parvus_. Someone who doesn’t care for or know that Lucas needs to fly at least twice a day to feel relaxed, that Harper needs to walk a round through Hogwarts every third hour so his energy levels don’t shoot too high, that Julius frowns a certain way when he’d like to go over a subject again, that Lys has made it habit to doodle ward schemes in her homework margins and needs to be told not to or Professor Flitwick will forget to teach class just to rant about five-point defense schemas again…

Wilkes doesn’t know these things, the smiles and nervous ticks and miscellaneous information slotted into Dietrich’s head, and Wilkes doesn’t care. That’s what irritates Dietrich the most, he thinks, is that Wilkes has clawed his way into their circle but Wilkes doesn’t know any of them at all, too busy provoking them and arguing with them and making fun of them to learn.

_You don’t deserve it,_ Dietrich thinks fiercely to himself.

He doesn’t deserve these people, who’ve made Dietrich’s life so much richer and happier. He doesn’t deserve Harper’s hyperactive-but-earnest chatter, Lucas’ blustering defense, Julius’ soft-touched peacemaking, Lys’ knowing grin that always says _You belong here, you’re one of mine._ Wilkes doesn’t deserve it, but he’s here anyways, and it’s like the boy is winning and Dietrich is losing.

Dietrich is tired of losing.

“You grovel, Wilkes,” Dietrich says, struggling to regain Occlumency-influenced composure, “You grovel and you hide behind bigger wizards, because you know you will never be one. Perhaps this temporary arrangement will be good for you. You will never get close to leadership again, aside from _pretending_ to be in Harper’s place.”

Wilkes sneer becomes more pronounced. He chuckles, but the sound is cold. “Look at you, Bastion, your hair is practically bristling. I don’t expect you to know, being a halfbred French-German, but Slytherin does imply some sort of self-pride. You were a statue back in first year, and now you’re a bloodtraitor’s lapdog.”

_She is not a dog to train tricks into, you_ fils de pute!

_Oh, but she will play fetch, won’t she? How willingly do you think Guinevere will walk into my arms if I’m dangling something she wants right in front of her? Something like, say… her much beloved Second._

You can’t have her.

_That’s where you’re wrong, Dietrich Bastion… I can have whatever I want._

He thinks he might hate Wilkes a little more.

Wilkes’ face lights up with interest. “Oh? Did I hit a nerve? You look much blanker than usual, which I think means you’re angry. Does it bother you, Bastion? That people see you as a statue and a halfbreed and a dog? While I am-”

“I know what you are,” Dietrich hisses, his chest paining and the sound of crackling fire slamming against nothing in his ears, _“Monster.”_

He turns away and marches, determined not to spend anymore time with Wilkes. Harper and Lu are flying, Lys and Julius watching. Dietrich had volunteered to remain in the common room, if only to keep Wilkes away from his friends. But now he longs to see them, needs to lay his eyes on Lys and be sure that she is safe and happy and definitely alive. He draws his breath slowly, pulling memories from his head, concentrating on the _after_ of the Chamber and not the Chamber itself.

When he bursts into the fresh air, his head seems to cool with the day and he walks towards the Quidditch fields. He sighs to himself. Of course Lys would take on the boy who was like the _soul-stealer._ He knows she’ll never admit it, least of all to him — he made his dislike of the book plain to see — but Lys hasn’t quite stopped grieving for the boy in that fucking book. How can she? Dietrich knows her magical core still has remnants of the soul-stealer’s, knows that when she looks at at her face always takes on that sad, wistful gaze that doesn’t belong there.

Wilkes will do that to her, he’s sure. Lys isn’t made for sadness or tears — anger, maybe, and definitely a bit of whimsicalness and arrogance and lots of irritation, but not the stuff that paralyzes people and breaks them down. Lys has always been someone who’s made to build upwards, to move in mind even when she’s not in body; she doesn’t sit and cry. Wilkes is the type of person who would make her still into tears, and Dietrich _knows_ this because that’s what happened to him.

When he walks into the field, it’s Julius who notices him first. Lys is busy trying to resist Harper’s whining and Lucas’ pleading for her to take to the sky. It is an argument they have often, and that she often wins.

Julius smiles, rising to meet him. His smile lessens as they approach each other.

It ends with a foot of space between them and Julius’ worried countenance. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” Dietrich mutters truthfully.

Semi-truthfully. He is _getting to_ fine. Seeing them all safe and together, it eases his heart.

Julius walks beside him, absently flicking a Warming Charm on Dietrich. He hadn’t noticed he was shivering until he was no longer. “You’re… angry. And worried. I think.” Julius murmurs.

Dietrich starts. “You can tell.”

“You’re distracted. And you were just with Wilkes.” Julius fiddles with his braid, a nervous tic that formed as soon as Lys plaited his hair for the first time. “He’s not… He’s not good to be around. Not for long. And not you. Or me, though it’s mostly… you.”  


He looks away. “I know. I should be watching him, but when his every word is so-”

“No, I wasn’t blaming you!” Julius exclaims, releasing his braid and making an aborted motion toward Dietrich, before going back to fiddling nervously. “Dietrich it’s… You shouldn’t take it upon yourself to watch him. We can… We can all take turns keeping an eye out. I know Harper and Lu are very… cavalier about him, outwardly, but that’s… it’s just outward. You’re our Second, but a leader’s only as much as their followers, so… let us help. You.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Julius speak this much. Looking at the boy, still fidgety — as much as Harper on a good day, which is saying something — and refusing to meet his eyes as he never meets anyone’s eyes… Well, Dietrich almost did not believe Julius said it.

His chest warms, though, which is how he knows. He keeps track of them all, the ways they make this cold country _home_ to Dietrich. He counts them and buries them deep in his head so he can always remember.

“Alright. I did not realize you were… worried.”

Julius bites his lip. “I’m always worried. About everything.”

Dietrich tentatively reaches out, his hand resting on Julius’ shoulder. He is taller, so it works, though the height difference between himself and Lys makes it easier when he does the same for her. It is… as close to a hug as he will initiate, he thinks. Not everyone in the world can be as oddly affectionate as Harper and Lys, after all.

Julius is certainly surprised by the contact, jade-green eyes shifting between Dietrich’s hand and face.

Dietrich gives a short nod. “I do not like to be the cause of worry. I will speak to the other two later, this I promise.”

Julius smiles, reassured but hesitant. “Alright. That’s good.”

They turn to meet Lys, who has somehow been conned — by Harper and his childish pouting, no doubt — into weaving magic for the two as they take their break. There are spirals of color shifting in the air, like swirls of ink. He recognizes Harper’s colors immediately: teals and sea-greens and lines of gold, touches of bluing edges, a flash of purple and violet, a coral-orange, a rosy sort of peach, another ripple of golden-white. Lys has explained to him enough about color change and their own magical cores that he knows the blue is his influence, the purples are hers, the orange is Lu, the sea-greens are Julius, etc.

(He finds it amusing, even years later, that the one piece of magic Harper always asks from Lys — not a week goes by without him asking — is to see her rendition of their colors, usually his own. He can’t say that he does not relate; Dietrich will always feel a swell of affection and pride when she explains and shows how their colors are still individual, but are always stealing bits and pieces from each other, wearing the others’ patterns proudly.)

“You know,” Dietrich says quietly, “I would have rather you taken Harper’s position for our ploy.”

Julius shakes his head. “It is… better, to show off. Wilkes, I mean. For us to show him off. He’s… He’s our stolen rook. We want to make sure Malfoy knows we took him, and did it successfully. It’s better.”

Dietrich grumbles. “He is irritating on a good day. Now he is insufferable. _Branleur.”_

Julius chuckles a little. A part of Dietrich wonders if one of the few things he has inherited from his father is the ability to accidentally pass down vulgar French vocabulary. It seems like it. “I wouldn’t have been good in the left position… I don’t… I don’t like people staring at me. Specifically me. I don’t think it’d… be helpful.”

“Do not undervalue yourself,” Dietrich murmurs, “We trust you as much as we trust Harper.” He pauses. “No. I trust you more than I trust Harper, at times. You do not actively attempt to cause explosions in class.”

His friend laughs. “If Harper knew how many destructive spells I knew, he would faint in happiness. And excitement.”

There might be something bitter in those words. Dietrich is sure Julius is thinking of _Adustio_ and how it exhausted Dietrich last year. They may not know, his friends, about the scar on his magical core’s development — the development, not the core itself, because Lys would have noticed in a heartbeat otherwise; for now, she just believes his core is developing oddly slowly, and has not said anything of it to save him face — but they know he was hurt. They know he was magically exhausted. Julius and Lys have still not quite forgotten about it, which means his decision to hide his deep injury was a right one.

Dietrich keeps his hand on Julius’ shoulder.

“Do not ever tell Harper the extent of your spell arsenal,” Dietrich says, emulating Lys’ way of distracting others from the troubles she can’t help with, “That is something best saved for when our leader decides to hunt legendary magical creatures again.”

“Or,” Julius says calmly — too calmly — “when another dementor comes.”

“The Headmaster will surely not let it get to that.” Dietrich mutters uneasily; Lys has faith in the man, after all, though she seems to also be under the impression that Albus Dumbledore is sort of far-sighted as well. He hopes his sight doesn’t go past the very real issue of the dementors on the edges of the wards.

Lys complains of them, but toughs the aura through crowding with them, sunlight, and a lot of chocolate. ‘My boys need to fly,’ is what she says when they ask if she wouldn’t rather move away from the dementors. Dietrich knows such words have the same effect on Lu and Harper as they all do on himself: warmth in the core of their chests, memories slotted into their heads.

“She calls the man a sort of grandfather figure,” Julius says quietly, “But I do not trust a man that ignores their ‘granddaughter’ unless he wants something from her.”

Dietrich frowns. “Is it not Lys who usually approaches the Headmaster?”

Julius shakes his head grimly. “She says Dumbledore tutored her when she was young and her core nearly strained against her —from being a natural Soothsayer. That’s how they met. That’s why she likes the man, because he helped her when she was young and struggling. If that isn’t someone making a claim, what is?”

The thought makes him want to sneer. _No one_ is allowed to make claims on his friends. Especially Lys. The last one who tried was killed by Harry bloody Potter, and that is something Dietrich will always be grateful for. The Boy-Who-Lived does not interest him outside of killing that little _salaud_ who wanted to make Lys a trained dog by his side. Unforgivable.

Julius watches him in surprise. “I see you get irritated… a lot. But it never really shows on your face. I didn’t know… When you’re angry, I can really _see_ it.”

Dietrich wants to scowl. Wilkes implied more or less the same thing. “I resent such a thing.”

“OI!”

They both look up at Lucas’ voice. They’re only a yard or so away, but the boy shouted. He looks irritated, but not overly so; Lucas expresses emotions so freely and fleetingly, they almost don’t hold the same meanings for him anymore. The irritation, at least, is never long-lasting or pertinent.

“You two done slow-crawling ‘cross the field? Been waiting for you forever! Lys is about to do your colors next, I know you both like seeing even if neither of you will admit it!” Lucas says, his irritation melting away into a smug grin as he speaks.

Harper laughs. “Dietrich especially! He gets his happy eyes when she shows his colors’ve got ours.”

Dietrich scoffs. “I do not get ‘happy eyes’.”

“You really do,” Lys says dryly, raising a brow.

“ _Tu exposes mes secrets, fille ridicule.”_ he says, in French, just to irritate Lys.

She gains a properly annoyed expression. “Every single time,” she murmurs to herself, twisting her wand and making Lucas’ bright, warm explosion of colors fade into Dietrich’s own steel-blues and deep, faint byzantiums, silvery strings and golden ripples leading glowing trails through the clouds of floating ink. 

Lys points out every influence of the others in them. Lucas and Harper laugh good-naturedly when she exasperatedly notices how much more purple there is. They watch in awe and content after that, and Dietrich feels at peace. 


	3. The End of All Things (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were so many things that went wrong. And there was one that went very, very right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe... so arc 4's gonna be a 'lil bit. (or a while, because ya girl just finished finals and is sick as shit, but whatever) BUT! I've been working hard at this one, so I hope this tides y'all over. You asked, I delivered. Kinda. I dunno.
> 
> Tom Riddle POV baby.
> 
> Oh, and the title was definitely ripped off from the song by Panic!at the Disco. I recommend the song, it's very lovely; Brendon Urie wrote it for his wife, it's very slow and sweet.

 

**…**

 

They try to drown him twice. 

Once, the orphanage matron and two priests, holding his tiny head under water that is supposed to burn out the demon inside him. When he tells them that it’s his throat and his lungs burning instead, gasping for air, tears in his eyes, they smile and tell him that it must have worked. They smile and tell him he’s good, now, and no more funny things will happen around him.

When it’s _them_ on fire, _their_ bodies burning, he decides to smile, too.

Twice is when they are all taken to the beach. A vacation of sorts, a treat for dirty little orphans; he doesn’t care, content to be left alone by the matron who fears him and rubs at the scars on her hands and neck when he looks at her. The children — _little pigs that they are —_ copy the woman who doesn’t care about them, trying to earn affection in whatever pathetic way they can, and hate the boy with lots of power but no friends. They hate him enough that they hold him down in his secret cove and laugh when his lungs burn again, when his throat is on fire, when there are dark spots in his blurry vision and they don’t care that he’s begging them to stop. He laughs, too, when there’s a new burn in his chest — under that bone that binds his ribs together, there — and suddenly they’re the ones thrashing and struggling to breath, held down my hands made of the power resting in his breast.

He looks at their bloated bodies and knows that they deserve it. No one is left to remember how he begged for life, and that’s how it should be. He’s seen it now, teary eyes and desperation and choking and reaching hands, and it’s _disgusting._ He sees them floating in the water that had tried to take him, too, and all he can do is laugh. And it’s no wonder, really, if that was what he looked like, pathetic and small and _weak._

No one will laugh at him again.

No one will have him on his knees, flailing, crying, _begging._

No one will ever have the chance.

In this world, there are those who are drowning and the ones who hold them down, and Tom Marvolo Riddle will be laughing at bloated bodies forever, if he has anything to say about it. He will not suffer that humiliation a third time.

 

**…**

 

Death is not a person.

Death is the water that fills your lungs and spills from your eyes and is pathetic. To die is to drown in _weakness_ , and Tom Riddle refuses to drown. His power has saved him every time he is burning, suffocating, frozen in death. His power is warmth coursing through his body, steady earth beneath his feet, pulling him out of holy water and hell, defending him from hands and sneers that weigh him beneath waves, breathing in the sun and exhaling stars. His power feels like that, feels like salvation and retribution in one stroke, feels like _life._

Albus Dumbledore asks him if he would like to learn how to control his power, his “magic”.

Tom Riddle sees a path that leads away from death. The water will never touch him there. He just has to make sure no one will hold him down, kick them away from his carefully-traveled road. Starting with Albus Dumbledore, whose gaze is suspicious and grimacing, cold as ice and wavering as wind.

_This is someone who holds others down and smiles,_ Tom thinks.

There are scars on the man’s body. One on the bridge of his nose, beneath wire-rimmed glasses. One curving up into his temple, hidden when the man tied his long hair back, thick enough to have been dangerous when it was fresh. Some on his hands, like burns, but smooth and old. There is apparently many on his leg, canyons of ruined flesh carved out from his knee. Battle wounds, Dumbledore says. From battles long past, so shall we concentrate on Hogwarts, Tom?

Lies. Albus Dumbledore is not done fighting yet. Albus Dumbledore stands tall and proud, eyes alert, face placid. Tom has seen soldiers before, gathering for the tension rising in Europe lately. Albus Dumbledore reminds Tom of soldiers, of killers sanctioned by everyone, raised to heroism for the blood on their hands.

_This is someone who uses death rather than run from it._

 

**…**

 

A sailor is lost at sea, treading water and knowing that when he has no more energy to give to kicking limbs and gasping lungs, he will sink and die. This is fact.

A raft will save him. A raft will float forever and carry him home. The raft is divinity, in the sailor’s eyes.

Tom Riddle does not believe in gods. So how else to keep himself away from death?

A sailor sinks. Another sailor sinks. A thousand sailors sink, their bloated bodies piling upon each other. They decay, turn to bone, attracting sea creatures and coral. They harden, turning into a reef. A thousand more sailors sink. It happens again. And again. And again. A sailor is lost at sea, but his flailing feet touch something solid, and he can stand and breath and laugh upon a mountain of corpses, rendered beautiful by their own weakness and his own strength that brought him there. A sailor is saved by flesh and bone and a thousand, thousand sacrifices.

That sailor is lucky. Tom Riddle does not believe in gods, and makes his own luck.

How many bodies shall he cast into the sea so that he may stand upon them and never drown?

He doesn’t know.

“I hope you don’t mind if we sit here — the rest of the train is full.”

“I don’t mind at all, go ahead.”

“Thank you. My name’s Abraxas Malfoy, that’s Redmond and Alaric Lestrange, this is Rowan Parkinson, and Cyprian Nott’s just behind him.”

“Pleasure to meet you. You can call me Tom.”

He will find out soon enough.

 

**…**

 

Abraxas Malfoy is polished marble and a circling vulture, waiting for a scrap of weakness that Tom will never give him. He knows these sorts, the ones who hide behind sweet smiles and take away your treasures after they wish you good night. But unlike those irritating orphanage _Muggles_ , Abraxas Malfoy knows how to lead the equally sharp and waiting boys beside him, childhood acquaintances who were born understanding that winning in life meant _money_ and money meant _Malfoy._ Tom follows him quietly, watching his cool-headed tilts of the head and when he smiles and when he scolds others when they’re more embarrassing than usual, according to wizarding society. Abraxas Malfoy is someone who knows how to use others and though he’s young, his skill with people is maddeningly better than Tom’s, so Tom bites his pride back and smiles and bows his head.

(“You’re a quiet sort, Tom, but you’ll do. Fetch my books, won’t you?”

“Of course, Malfoy.”

“Hm, yes. Much more pleasant than a squeaky little House Elf, but just as useful.”

“Glad to be of service.”)

( _Until you drown._ )

Redmond and Alaric Lestrange do not have that confident charisma that Abraxas displays with every gesture, but they are intelligent and interested in magic. Tom keeps to them, asking questions to challenge them and gain knowledge. He wastes his nights away studying to make sure he doesn’t sound stupid, to show them he is just as clever and just as learned. They speak of Dark Magic and ritual and druidic influences and spellcraftsmen collections and all sorts of things — fast enough to make Tom’s head spin, but he claws his way into keeping up, and once they see him as more one of them than some nosy Mudblood, he’s introduced to much more.

(“Guess you aren’t as much of an idiot as we thought.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Maybe you can keep up… Want to help de-construct _Stupefy_ into a ritual? Other wizards have done it, of course, but it’s good practice for the complicated stuff later. Half-ritual spells, the ones with longer incantations, they’re tricky.”

“I’d be glad to help. Do you already have a matrix for it?”

“The main circle, but Alaric thinks there’s a few secondaries.”

“If only either of us were Soothsayers… it’d make this much easier.”

“What is a Soothsayer?”

“Ha! Tom, sometimes we forget you’re a Mudblood!”)

( _You will._ )

There is no polished leadership or magical talent within Rowan Parkinson and Cyprian Nott, but what Tom learns from them is just as vital to the mask he crafts, the mask he swears to embody and breathe in. Rowan Parkinson is a level of excitable that hinges on irritating on a good day, but he sets others at ease with how he seems to befriend everyone. Cyprian Nott is quieter, calmer, coaxing others to his whims with secret grins, holding Parkinson back from intruding on the shyer students even as he can’t seem to connect to the more outgoing ones. 

They’re not leaders, but leaders aren’t given secrets in confidence or complained to; they’re not honor students, but honor students aren’t looked at without some sort of pedestal or jealousy attached. They navigate the crowds of Hogwarts with a natural sort of skill, in their own ways, and Tom finds their lessons — not that they know they’re giving them, not that they know Tom will _take_ — the most frustrating of all. Memorization and arrogance are easy to flare, but the empathy these two seem to find second nature is just beyond Tom.

He settles with mimicking; pretending to like others, painting sympathetic smiles on his face, gleeful laughter ringing out of his throat. He learns how to react to tears depending on who’s crying, how to defuse a building argument or tantrum depending on who’s screaming, how to insert himself into lives as a pivotal focus, a leader, a friend, an _idol._ Tom learns these things and it takes him _so long_ to learn these things, fumbling along with Nott and Parkinson and gritting his teeth at how incompetent and cold they make him seem.

He is cold, but the implication of incompetence _burns him_. His too-long pauses when a girl is wallowing, his blank eyes when someone tells a joke… Tom has to unlearn all of these things, pretend he wasn’t the dirty, no-good orphan who no one wanted, pretend he wasn’t the worthless Mudblood, pretend he wasn’t drowning.

(“I’m glad you’re finally making friends, Tom.”

“Hm?”

“Yeah, for a little while, we thought you just didn’t have the ability to.”

“Don’t be rude! But… er… he’s not wrong, Tom. It’s like you’ve never had friends before.”

“Well, now you’ve got droves, eh? Lots and lots of silly girls, looking to do whatever you want. Must be nice.”

“I think it’s good. Good job, Tom!”

“Thank you for your guidance.”)

( _Guiding me to the water and stepping inside all by yourself.)_

 

**…**

 

He is sixteen and handsome, tall and broad-shouldered, helpful and intelligent, friendly and inspiring. There are other boys who are tall, who are helpful, who are friendly, who are handsome, but it is Tom Riddle who draws the crowds to him, who everyone looks upon favorably. (Everyone except Dumbledore, he of the hawk-like eyes, trained on Tom as if he is _prey._ Ridiculous.) The boys of the school trail in his shadow like dogs, fighting each other over who gets to be closest. The girls of the school stare and blush and whisper that he is the second coming of Adonis.

They call him an _Adonis._

The girls do, at least. The boys — those who fail to benefit from Tom, who are too inept to hide their petty jealousy — laugh behind their hands and call him  _Narcissus._

Narcissus of the pitiful death and the water-mirror, or Adonis of the gory death and life dictated by gods.

(It’s a compliment, they think. He knows this. It’s just… To be proven, now and every time they speak, that there is no one who can meet him on an intellectual level, who understands the implications of what they say, who is a paradox of Muggle and wizard knowledge and behavior as he is — they think his Muggle knowledge is mysterious and genius, the fools they are, though he encourages that line of thought with care — who is just… not them.)

(He doesn’t know. It’s odd. They are followers, and he wants those, but he despises them for their weakness, their stupidity, the very fact that they are followers. He supposes one can despise something and need it at the same time, and Tom is not a fool, though he is proud — he needs these stupid, stupid pigs.)

He likes to think he is less Narcissus and more like the water-mirror. Reflecting the most beautiful and appealing versions of all these stupid people who meet him, showing them a version of themselves so lovely that they’d gladly drown for it.

He is so kind. He is so thoughtful. He is so gentlemanly.

(He is kind, so in speaking to me, he must like me, and that means I must also be kind, and special, too. He is so thoughtful, thinking of me, which means I am special to this person, I am in the thoughts of the Adonis. He is so gentlemanly, so I must be deserving of this respect, I must be just as good as him, he makes me as good as him.)

Sometimes, he wonders.

Are people so stupid that they see kindness where there is cruelty? That they mistake self-interest for thoughtfulness? That gentle manners aren’t just clever ways to get what he wants? That he is a foolish, narcissistic human who cannot see anything but what he wants to see?

They are, he finds.

They are, he thinks, like lemmings. Throwing themselves into death with all surety.

 

**…**

 

“Wh-Who is that- is that in here? Th-This is the girl’s lavatory, you know, an-and I-I don’t want to get you in trouble, just because you want to make sure I-I’m alright after stu-stupid Olive Hornby…”

“Oh. I actually wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

“Who-”

 

**…**

 

He is trapped in the pages of a diary and he _cannot get out._

He is not made for this. He may look as composed as a Grecian statue, may seem like the snake in wait, but Tom _cannot_ stand silent stillness. It is not comforting to know that the Other, the main soul, is out there somewhere, doing what he cannot. Tom doesn’t care for empty platitudes; what he knows are the blurry edges of his own memories, yellow pages, and being stuck between them. That is all he can feel and it makes him want to tear his skin off.

Only, he doesn’t have skin, nor hair, nor anything else he can tear to bits in frustration and need for something to do. Breaking something was satisfying and at least you could choose to put it back together — not that Tom did a lot of that in his later years at Hogwarts, because what a _waste_ — but this forced _boredom_ , this _nothingness…_

He cannot _stand_ going through his memories for the thousandth time in a row. He has memorized every facet of his life, from the micro-expressions on the sheep’s faces as he coaxes them into cooperation, to every wand movement that bloody Professor Dumbledore ever performed in class and out. He is so laughably learned in the basics of Hogwarts curriculum that, were he corporeal, he would probably be able to perform it all _wandless_ and at sixteen, Tom Riddle — _Lord Voldemort_ — had only just begun that study. He has memorized pages and pages of the hundreds — _thousands_ — of books he read growing up, studying and learning for the first time.

He is _trapped_ and Tom Riddle wonders if he didn’t drown anyways.

Drowning in emptiness for a year.

Two years.

Five.

Eleven years.

Twenty-one years.

A quarter of a century.

Half a century.

Over and over and over and over and over the same memories over and over and over and over-

 

**…**

 

He learns how to touch magic outside of himself. He learns how to brush his not-fingertips against the slick oil of the Dark magic that protects and hides the diary, and then how to mute those protections. Curling his fingers around it, pulling it to pieces. Then he learns the feather-light of Elf magic, the cool marble — _How fitting._ — of Abraxas’ magic, the rough stone that is Lucius’ — _So the short-sighted bastard had a son, then._ — and even the crumbling sort of thing that is the grandson’s, Draco. His mother, the daughter of Cygnus, is like cool water, pond water (a water-mirror). There are other magical presences, like rubbing velvet the wrong way, or feathers. House Elves, perhaps? Objects have feelings, too, metallic or sappy or wood grain or sandpaper. It all depends on what sort of magic is imprinted.

It’s a little impressive, honestly. He’s become a Soothsayer out of sheer, agonizing boredom.

Or perhaps it part of the Horcrux. The ability to feed on other souls, other magic… Well, that was detailed to be a way for Horcruxes to further protect themselves. Tom hadn’t expected his sentience to remain entirely, but if he could learn enough magical manipulation to somehow give himself mobility… Well, that would be useful. The Other wouldn’t even know.

First, of course, he has to learn how to use this pseudo-Soothsaying power.

He can only really affect things that are near him, and he’ll admit that killing one of the House Elves was a little accidental and hasty. It was likely cleaning the shelf he’s hidden in, or whatever the hell the Horcrux is hidden, and, well… Just the right around of pressure, just the right words, and a heady rush of power in his veins that he hasn’t felt in _years_ … well, Tom could hardly resist.

What _did_ enrage him, though, was that brat Lucius’ reaction.

Suddenly, the wards around him were tightened into steel, like a wire grate he couldn’t poke his fingers through, and he was cut off from the rest of the house, from the magic that was suffused in the very stones. He ranted and screamed, throwing himself against the wards like a bloody madman, because _he couldn’t be trapped anymore._ How dare that upstart Malfoy take away his freedom again? How _dare_ he lock Tom up like a naughty child, when Tom lorded over his father and had the _child_ bowing and scraping like the scum he was?

(He feels hands on the back of his head, pushing him under.)

(He chokes and screams.)

Half a century more of this, a century more of this, seven centuries more of this, a millennia…

An eternity.

An eternity.

An _eternity._

Tom cannot even rip himself to pieces, to fluttering scraps of parchment.

(He tried. He knows. He tried.)

 

**…**

 

Is this death?

He was right to fear it, then, the lemming who threw himself into the sea.

 

**…**

 

Sometimes he dreams. Sometimes he thinks the wards are down and Malfoy is dead — sweet, sweet dreams — and he can roam the only way he knows. Numbness is replaced by the rich textures of the world’s magic, the cool and shocking touch of the Dark, the warm and fragile brushes of the Light, the fluctuations and mixtures that are Grey. He can feel it sift through his fingers, every texture sliding down him and reminding him of the warmth that used to be his only friend. Sometimes he thinks he’s free again and if he but concentrated he could poke at little Draco — a bratling worthy of his Noble House, he’s sure — and wrap an arm around the shivering House Elves just to laugh as they squeak in surprise, but-

But those are dreams and the fact that Tom is having difficulty remembering where he is, floating in nothing or bowing gracefully to that toad Slughorn or whispering ritual magic before a girl’s broken body or breathing in smoky magic from the salamanders that Mudblood Snape brings when he visits his godson…

Tom wonders if he’s cracked, sometimes, and it infuriates him because the Other is out there, somewhere, and doesn’t have to know what it is to feel yourself fall apart but never… cease. He doesn’t want to die, the very fact that he is a Horcrux is proof of that, but he hopes to Circe above that someone kills the Other and the Other has to come looking for Tom to revive, since he no longer has access to the world to manipulate things by himself. Surely the Other made all six of the Horcruxes by now, but Tom is sure that he is the strongest; and when the Other drinks of his shard of soul, Tom will gladly rip into his mind and put it together the way he wants, so it’s _his._

(He ignores the fact that the Other has been aware and free all these years, probably could tear apart Tom’s Hogwarts knowledge and hobby reading with a flick of his fingers. It inspires a mix of fury and pride if Tom thinks of it too long.)

Sometimes he dreams of freedom from this diary.

(From himself.)

But they’re just dreams and as much as he struggles with his likely cracked mind, he is better than this. He untangles dreams and reality and memories and pages carefully, holding onto sanity with a vice-like grip, determined to purge this weakness from his soul.

 

**…**

 

There is nothing.

And then, he dreams.

He turns away from the false textures, the delusions he’s become unstable enough to crave, because Tom Riddle will not be taken in by such things. This dream, it’s texture is lovely under his hands. Silk and smooth, rounded stones that clatter but never pinch, clear water, feather-light touches of snake scales coiling. It’s tempting, oh yes, to close his eyes to this foolishness and let himself revel in the sensation of such a Dark but pure magic, but Tom will not _allow_ that. Falling to temptation? Ridiculous.

And then.

_Hello, T.M. Riddle._

And then it isn’t a dream at all.

(The snake coils around him gently, tentatively. He dips his hand into the water and feels the stones underneath.)

_Hello. Who is this?_ he asks.

(-trembling. But he will never admit such a thing.)

_That would be telling._

Were he flesh, a startled smile might cross his face. As such, he’s shocked by the amusement and relief and wonder that he feels. Which is immediately taken over by disgust, because he is _Lord Voldemort_ and he marvels at the fact he was so taken off-guard that some little girl writing is a surprise. This is all _ridiculous_ and as soon as he can, his mind begins to whirl, begins to plot. He has missed having the ability and choice and need to _plot._ To think.

_And yet you know my name and I’m ignorant of yours? Telling of your manners, I think._

A jolt of warmth, the tightening of the scales, a splash of water. Surprise. Amusement, maybe? Tom is not to practiced in this anymore, in sensing magic like this.

_Well, I’m anything but rude. I think you’ll look down on me for my name, though._

_And why is that?_

_My family is made up of bloodtraitors._

Hm. Not an ideal situation. Where on earth is Malfoy? Tom wonders if, when he manages to escape this book, whether a few _lessons_ are in need. To lose his Horcrux… For it to end up in the hands of a Dark girl from a bloodtraitor family… Tom was extremely lucky that the girl seems to feel the call of Dark to Dark, seems to defy her family. This could have been extremely dangerous if not; Fate was on Tom’s side today.

It will not be on Malfoy’s when Tom gets out, however.

_Ah. I wouldn’t judge you for that, though. You seem an intelligent girl._

_What gave it away? That I’m a girl, that is. Is it my handwriting? I’ll have you know I learned from my quite male brother, he’s a calligraphy master in spite of the bloodtraitor thing._

_Haha! Oh, but you are amusing. No, it was just a hunch._

(He determinedly ignores the fact that he might not be flattering in this case. This situation _is_ rather amusing for him. The girl will never be able to pry that from his pages, though, he’ll make sure of it.)

_Excellent. I love meeting sentient objects with intelligence enough to form their own hunches. You aren’t Dark or anything, are you? Dad’s been doing raids on Dark artifacts, I bet he’d string me up if I had one resting in my pocket._

_I’m not Dark. Grey, mostly. I’m just a memory._

_Good, I’ve been starved for intelligent conversation. My whole family is being cold to me because I asked them if they’d hate me if I wasn’t sorted into Gryffindor. D’you think they’ll get over it if my marks are good?_

There’s a certain sort of spark to her magic that Tom thinks is excitement. It’s likely that she knows he lied; he’s quite Dark, and only a little Grey. But his luck holds, because the girl is more interested in him and spiting her family than she is in Light ideals and caution. Stupid, but useful. There are, after all, certain ways to come back.

Perhaps he doesn’t need the Other after all.

_Perhaps. But you haven’t told me your name, Miss._

_Oh, right. Promise you won’t look down on me for it?_

_Promise._

Ridiculous child. Believing in promises. Tom wonders how long it will take to drink the water of her soul, crush the silk and stones in his hands, slit the snake scales open from tail to throat and eat. This is what her promises will give her, in the end. A shame that it was he who would have to give her that lesson; perhaps someone or something else would be kinder.

_Guinevere Lysandra Weasley._

_A pleasure, Guinevere. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?_

He has never been kind.

 

**…**

 

_Tom! I get it now, why the anchors for this Iranian ward are chains of runes rather than circles, even though the place is geographically close to us. It’s Buddhism, isn’t it?_

_Oh?_

_Buddhism passed up from India passed from Asia, where their ancient wizards and witches based magic on their thousand-bloody-character alphabet systems, which meant more complex wards and therefore more complex anchors. Chained anchors, not circles, which traveled with Buddhism and integrated into cultures that the religion touched._

It grates. It is _irritating_ the girl knows more Muggle history than he does. His Muggle education only went until he was eleven, after all; after that, his historical knowledge is magical and full of holes. He knew most of what she wrote, of course, but the connect she made with that Muggle religion… that was new.

A bloodtraitor if he ever saw one. But a friend would not sneer, and it’s a friend who is given the soul. He remembers this lesson well.

_Ah, very good. You’re very learned._

_Oh. Right, that’s because of my family. My dad loves Muggle history, especially technological history. Electricity is a favorite of his._

_Knowing how another people work is important. Muggles are quite clever, having no magic._

The words feel like ash. He despises Muggles. He despises the abominations they created during the war, the threat they present to magic everywhere. Muggles, who fear everything different and rip each other to pieces for it, weak and crawling little things that don’t know how truly dangerous a persecuted person can be. A persecuted _people_ can be.

Tom hopes that the Other managed to teach the Muggles. Hopes he held down their heads and drowned them in the magic he breathes in and out, as easily as air. Hopes that with Guinevere’s soul he will be able to do the same.

(If there is no one drowning, then how can the one who drowns them exist? They don’t.)

(There is only death.)

_Well, if we know how their technology works, wouldn’t it be easier to integrate that into our own world?_ Guinevere writes to him seamlessly, _Or easier to sabotage, if it came to that._

Tom blinks at Guinevere’s response. Or does the equivalent.

Oh.

Ohhhh.

Well, this was interesting.

_Well, then. I was not aware… You do not like Muggles?_

She’s quiet, for a while. Then…

_Might be the bloodtraitor in me, but Muggles… they’re people. A group of people with something in common: their lack of magic. Groups of people with common traits that are opposite yours? Well… That’s what you call a threat, isn’t it?_

Well.

Well, she’s not wrong.

Tom wonders if he hadn’t picked up a rare sort of person. Rather than feeling superior to Muggles, or covering her fear of their ridiculous numbers and rising technology with arrogance… Well, she’s not afraid to admit that she thinks them threatening. And, with how she thirsts for knowledge and power, Guinevere wants to do something about the threat. She’s too _Light_ to really want a culling, like he does, like the Muggles _deserve_ , but she _is_ thinking about how to stay a step ahead. Quite a Slytherin approach.

Were she not going to fuel his evolution from Horcrux to sentient form, it might be a good idea to try to nudge her thinking towards something more violent and definitive. The truest way to keep the magical world safe was to eliminate its threats, not simply monitor and steal from them. But Guinevere would likely not live to her next birthday, so it was a moot point.

Unfortunate, but Tom would make the sacrifice.

(He is tired of drowning.)

_Forgive me if I offend, but I am rather surprised. I know you are not like your family, but I expected your upbringing to prevent you from seeing Muggles this way…_

_No offense taken. My family admires Muggles. Sees them as cute little things. Condescension can be dangerous and blinding, and I’m not going to be that stupid, you know? Why would you ignore a rising threat?_

There’s an edge of _something_ there. A hesitation. Guinevere tries very hard not to be attached to her family, of course. There’s a mistruth somewhere there. Tom decides he can pick it apart later, when it was more pressing. Now? He’s a bit too curious about this topic, since for all that he tries, she gives him so little news on wizarding politics and current events. Muggle views is a step towards that, and Tom will milk this silly conversation for all that it is worth.

_Why indeed? Why not eliminate it?_

_Counterpoint. Why eliminate a resource?_

Oh, but she is clever. Tom really does wonder what sort of follower she would be.

_How tempting are these Muggle resources that you would risk our world?_

_Well, there’s those mobile telephones, you know. Instant communication anywhere. Cameras and recording devices with evidence so incorruptible that Muggles use it in their legal system — maybe wizards could do the same? An impartial watching device. Computers, definitely._

A clever visionary.

A clever visionary who knows more about something than Tom.

A clever visionary who knows more than Tom and is soon to expire.

Well. Tom has already been very good at learning, hasn’t he? Learning important things and tutoring less important things. Receiving much, much more than he gives but pretending it’s the other way around. But Guinevere is quite sharp, so she’d likely check his information… which meant he’d have to tutor her rather well. But then again, she was soon to die without even realizing it, so there was no harm in it.

_I’m intrigued,_ Tom says, and it isn’t even a lie.  _Tell me more, Guinevere._

 

**…**

 

How on earth did the wizarding world produce this girl?

She’s at Hogwarts, and though she spends a lot of her time with only the one boy — the foreigner, of all people, sometimes Guinevere was so _ridiculous_ — but Tom grows stronger, bit by bit, and he can reach out to others, other souls, brushing against them to see how they compare to his Horcrux’s protector. Not that Tom is at the level where he can read minds at a single touch (Guinevere is resistant to him, though he has little frame of reference for how long it takes for someone’s soul to belong to someone else) but he understands enough, diving into the ones she is closest to and from her own stories — of which she has many — of others. He understands that no one quite thinks like she does, quite pairs this natural vulgarity and that creative inquisitiveness so naturally, a mixture of a child meeting magic for the first time and someone older, wiser.

It is very odd, how radical her ideas are, how she resists conventions, how she effortlessly falls into trouble and back out again with more than she had before. She wants to create spells to mimic Muggle technology, for Merlin’s sake.She wants to create spells and wards that are specialized for wandless magic. She wants to study advanced ward theory so she can figure out how to use them in _combat._

Who uses _warding_ in combat? In the situations Guinevere describes, the speed one would need to have in ward-creation… it would take a ridiculous amount of practice to perfect against real opponents. Who used such a fraudulently _Light_ practice in a situation where you’d need to _kill?_ The wards would _weaken_ with that sort of intent! The girl didn’t make _any sense._

But the way she described it…

It was interesting.

_She_ was interesting.

Interesting, and a little-

_Ridiculous._

_It’s not ridiculous! Imagine the applications of virtual reality via magic, Tom. Training simulations._ Surprise _training simulations. But that’s just military — can you imagine how it might be used recreationally? I can. The Muggles’ve already done it._

Muggle-loving bloodtraitor. She is trying so very hard not to be, but her respect for them is too blatant. It makes Tom want to vomit, sometimes, when he is not suitably distracted by her enthusiasm and faltering arguments.

_The Muggles create fantasy worlds because they long for magic. We already have magic, so there is no need for escape._

_But you at least get the training simulations idea, right?_

_It’s easier and less costly to simply duel. Blow up an environment and set a team inside to reenact a battlefield, and when you are finished, repair it. Wizards have no need for your Muggle ‘video games’._

_Not even magic can do some things, Tom. And sci-fi! I bet wizards would love sci-fi._

_Wizards are close-minded and stupid enough to be annoyed at the fact that they can’t cast a Bubblehead Charm to keep breathing in space._

_First of all, the pressure and cold would still kill you. Second of all,_ you _are a wizard._

_Wizards are stupid. I am not._

_You say that Muggles are stupid, though, Tom._

_I rather think everyone is stupid._

Not a lie. There are different types of stupidity, as there are different types of intelligence. There are ways to look at something completely wrong. Tom doesn’t usually say things so bluntly or ridiculously, but he knows why he does, why he did just then.

It comes as usual; the sliding of scales over his skin, smooth and the silk brushing at his cheeks, the babbling brook bubbling and warming up, the smooth stones sliding and bumping gently against him. That’s what Guinevere’s mirth feels like, and he’s become increasingly familiar with it. (Tom has learned how to draw it up more and more.)

(He tells himself that her laughter means she grows closer to him, means her soul is ripening for his hands to pluck. He tells himself this.)

 

**…**

 

All it takes is a single moment.

She triumphs over her enemies within their House. She has proven herself better than them and her excitement and pride rippled through their touching magic, rippling from one to the other as always. She chatters — because she always chatters, Guinevere, the ridiculous girl, it will get her killed one day, she has so little impulse control, for Merlin’s sake — and he snaps at her and isn’t surprised when she takes it in stride.

(It almost feels like relief, the first time his temper frays and he insults her too caustically by far and all Guinevere does is laugh at him and apologize easily. He tells himself he’s relieved that he won’t have to deal with tears and making excuses, but… There is a part of him that rather thinks that’s false. Yet he knows it to be true. It wouldn’t be logical, otherwise.)

(He has been in the diary too long, he thinks. There is something _wrong_ with him.)

_Casual destruction of authority at eleven. Dear, dear, Guinevere, what are they going to do with you?_

_Oooh, you’re in a good mood now. Care to share?_

_Perhaps yours is catching. I wouldn’t mind helping you, Guinevere. I was the leader of the Slytherins in my day. You can imagine how much work it took._

This is something he understands. Clawing your way to the top. Swimming upwards by pushing bloated bodies down. Tom knows how to navigate the treacherous paths to success, and he offers guidance to Guinevere without a second thought. A little alarming, but he soothes himself with thoughts of taking Guinevere’s soul for his own.

He is relieved and proud and surprised and not surprised at all when Guinevere refuses.

_It’s alright, Tom. Merlin knows it would be easier if I accepted, but I’d like to do it on my own. More satisfying that way — after all, wouldn’t it be impressive if an eleven-year-old bloodtraitor girl took down the prince of Slytherin?_

Still, he should try. If he helped her, she would owe him, and he could use that, no? That was… That was what he needed. Guinevere to be in his debt, to trip over herself to help him. The entire point of all of this annoying and not-so-annoying drivel was to get her to trust him. His odd hesitations and irrationality would have to be ignored. Obviously there was something wrong with his container, or perhaps some odd mixture of Light and Dark magicks was interfering with his soul imprint. All the more reason to leave the diary.

_No one would know you weren’t alone if I helped._

_You and I would know, and that’s one too many._

_One too many? Which of us would you rather not know?_

_Me._

Laughter feels like a stupid thing, to Tom. Something to show your amusement and to invite others to be amused as well. A social construct that people encourage for whatever inane reason. There is no point to laughing unless it is a calculated gesture, a tool to relate to those of lower intelligence and emotional control. Tom cannot remember the last time he laughed for just himself and not for others, and likes to think he never has.

No one ever told him that the act, which is so much like gasping that he has always resolved not to do it, was the very opposite. It doesn’t feel like you’re struggling to breathe. It feels like the air itself is pouring into you, like life flaring in your bones.

Tom laughs and Guinevere’s magic is suffused with wonder, and he has never felt more alive.

(All it takes is a single moment.)

_I wish you wouldn’t have to die, you ridiculous girl._

(There is something very wrong with Tom, he realizes now.)


	4. The End of All Things (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were so many things that went wrong. And there was one that went very, very right.

 

**…**

 

Why?

He should. He should want her to die. Guinevere’s soul is strong and young, and it would help him craft an equally strong and young body. Then he would never have to be trapped in numbness again, cut off from the world and blind and deaf and senseless; he would never have to wish for pain just to feel _something._ Guinevere’s soul would be the most worthy sacrifice for Lord Voldemort.

Strong and young. Defiant yet intelligent. Ruthless and clever. Compassionate yet logical. Talkative and eager. Childish yet wise. Impatient and tunnel-visioned. _Ridiculous._ Always, always ridiculous.

Tom has never known what this is. She will not follow him. Their every interaction is an exchange, not an offering. He cannot snarl at her for the respect he is due, and she chooses to treat him well because… because she likes him. And he knows this, because her soul slips slowly into his and that means she is giving to him but what has never been specified in a Horcrux’s abilities is whether a fragment of a soul can give back.

(If he could, he has. If he could, he would have.)

She is the perfect soul to begin life anew.

She is the perfect soul to have met him.

Merlin, dammit. There is something wrong with his container, she corrupted him somehow; or maybe Malfoy’s wards did so, and Guinevere was just the catalyst. Tom makes a note to punish Malfoy severely when he escapes, though his escape is looking less desirable because of this odd _mistake_ in his being, and the most logical route that he has been pursuing all this time seems to be crumbling before his very eyes, by no one’s hands _but his own?_ Ridiculous and disgusting, Tom thinks to himself. He’s become burdened with false sentimentality and now the perfect soul for him was somehow within and completely outside of his reach-

_Tom? Are you awake?_

His previous thoughts are put aside with such sudden immediacy that it almost makes him dizzy. Another point to the growing list of irregularities that need to be resolved.

_I am,_ Tom replies,  _It’s rather early, isn’t it? Or late._

_Oh, yeah. It’s three._

_And? Why are you up at this hour, you ridiculous girl?_

(If he reminds himself that she is ridiculous, surely he will come to his senses any time now. Though, magic works in mysterious ways, so that might not be the case. Tom still deems it fitting to try, however.)

_Oh, it’s_ actually _a little ridiculous this time. I had a nightmare._

He pushes down amusement.  _A nightmare?_

_I used to get them a lot when I was little. They’re always horrible things. Falling. Running away from something but not being fast enough. Screaming and blood. Being trapped in the dark and not being able to move, that sort of thing._

_Stupid girl. Don’t be dismissive. I can tell when you’re presenting false bravado._

He can tell because there’s a fine tremor in her textures, a faded-ness to them that he recognizes as fear and sadness. She’s associated with enough other cores who feel such emotions more often that Tom can recognize the patterns. Somehow, it makes him want to break something with the same hands he wishes to use as reassuring touches against her magic.

She pauses before she answers. _Oh… Well. Yes, I. I just. Tom, how do you stop yourself from. From shaking? And. Such._

Just by her handwriting, Tom can tell she’s shaking. There are droplets of water soaking into the pages, too. Tears. It makes him extremely uncomfortable. Jittery. He presses his magic against hers, trying to make it stop.

_Distract yourself, so you aren’t afraid._

_Fear is important._

_Fear is crippling._

It is. Fear is a plague that eats away at you and makes you stupid. Tom’s seen it enough, felt it enough, to know. The only think you can do is turn your fear into something else. The Gryffindors turn it into recklessness. Guinevere is part-Gryffindor, unfortunately for her, so she has to learn that fear is difficult to sharpen into a weapon the way the lions want. It is too wild for that. It is better to put it away and work against it and forget that it ever existed.

Work hard enough, swim on and on and on, and eventually you forget that you were afraid of drowning. The only think you know is to get out, rise up, _breathe._ He hesitates to put these words into writing, though. It’s not… It’s not something he’s shared, before. And it’s not something he ever will. Tom’s thoughts are his own; that’s one thing he’s learned, trapped in this diary. He owns nothing but his own thoughts.

_I thought fear was for animals to know what’s dangerous and what’s not. Learning from experience. My brother almost drowned when he was younger. To this day, he can’t step into anything deeper than a bathtub._

_That’s illogical. As is fear. If your brother feared rivers, that would make more sense. But to fear all water is crippling._

_He’ll never drown again, though. Learning experience._

People will always drown. That is what death is. That is what it feels like.

_I would have thought you’d like for your brother to conquer such a fear._

_I do! But I’m just saying… fear has its place in people’s heads._

He could argue. But she is no longer shaking, no longer near-blind with fear, so there’s no need for that. Maybe tomorrow.  _At least your oaf of a brother fears something logical. Water is a terrible way to die._

_Are you afraid of water, Tom?_

Her magic is settled. No more of that trembling, icy sensation that alarmed him. She is Dark, but her magic is never like _ice._ Pleasantly cool, but not hurting. It’s all silk and smooth stones again, and water that flows past him in ribbons.

_Sometimes,_ he tells her.

_Well,_ she writes, _Thank you for distracting me. It’s not… I don’t usually have nightmares this bad, and I was only half-awake when I wrote. I try not to bother other people with this._

_You are always welcome, Guinevere. But…_

_Yes?_

~~ _If I_ ~~ __ _~~I don~~’ ~~t~~_ __ _~~I d~~ ~~on’t w~~ ~~an~~ ~~t yo~~ ~~u to d~~ ~~ie~~_

(He does not struggle for words. Not since he graduated from learning at the foot of Malfoy. Not since he surpassed Parkinson and Nott in charming people. He should not struggle for words. But these are stupid words, words he shouldn’t be thinking. Slytherins lie and trick and steal to get what they want, and what Tom wants is to live and be free from these pages and the Other, and he needs… He needs Guinevere’s soul for that, he does. He does.)

(He cannot struggle for words. He should not even say them.)

_What? Tom, you’re doing the thing again. Writing too fast._

_I was just going to tell you that perhaps you should look into Occlumency before sleeping. To settle your head. I don’t know it myself, but an old professor of mine told me of it once…_

_Oh. I actually know some basics, since Dad taught me, but I’ll try. Goodnight, Tom._

_Good night, you ridiculous girl._

It is nights like these, conversations like these, that in the end make his decision.

 

**…**

 

He is not so stupid that he will travel the route of self-denial to his doom. He does not want Guinevere to die. It would cause him an amount of… grief, if she did. Irrational and stupid, but Tom supposes he can’t do anything about that at the moment. The corruption of the diary is too vague to cure, so he shall work around it. The solution is quite simple: he will not kill her.

Only, he still very much wants to be flesh once again. (Free, once again.)

So he will find someone else. He knows how to lure magic to himself, how to call out to a soul without them noticing. So he does, and the magic is rather revolting to touch in comparison to Guinevere’s. Constricting and unpleasant, much smaller. Fledgling magic; Guinevere’s age but not her power, nor her intellect, nor her vision. The feeling of having your skin scraped just hard enough to be uncomfortable, but not painful.

Parkinson, then.

Who is no doubt here to…

Ah.

Tom smiles, or as much as he can. The girl’s touch makes him want to shudder, but knowing that Guinevere will continue to live is worth such a thing. But more importantly, Parkinson is fetching him for only one person.

Malfoy Sr. did lock him up, didn’t he? Slammed down ward after ward to make sure he couldn’t influence his environment, the magic around him, anymore. _Possibly_ corrupted the diary with wards that reacted badly with the magic of the Hocrux. Held down his head under boredom and numbness. Tom was almost driven mad for it. 

It seems fair, that he gets to take his son’s soul in recompense. That, and Guinevere will be down an annoyance. And Tom can explore this irrationality properly, once he is flesh. Fate is once again on his side, he thinks, with how neatly the pieces are falling together.

 

**…**

 

_Reveal._

_Hm? Who is this?_

_Guinevere Weasley,_ the boy lies with writing that isn’t even close to Guinevere’s. (She likes to say that her handwriting isn’t very pretty, but Tom begs to differ, after this.) _Reveal my writings._

_I’m afraid I don’t keep track of everything she writes, nor can I recreate it to show to you._ A blatant lie. The only thing Tom presides over are his memories and, to an extent, his magic. He can recall every single words she’s ever written to him, every brush of her magic against his. But that wouldn’t be very conductive to his goal to admit, so of course, he continues with feigned curiosity.  _Who are you, anyways?_

_I command you to reveal Weasley’s writing._

Tom hasn’t followed a Malfoy’s command in more than fifty years. He’s not about to start that again.

_The bloodtraitor girl didn’t write much in my pages, I assure you._

Now the boy hesitates. 

_What are you?_

_A memory, I suppose._

_A memory of what?_

_The question is: A memory of whom?_

_Yes, that._

Tom now realizes how very lucky he was for Guinevere to happen upon him, more than ever. It was already inordinately fortunate that, after Malfoy pawned his diary off to a _Light_ family, that it was the Dark child who found him. Tom would say the odds for that same Dark child to be clever, ambitious, and intelligent enough to keep up with him… well, he would say those odds were impossible, based on previous experience. Guinevere was never this irritating.

Guinevere also knew, right off the bat, that she could talk to him.

Odd.

Perhaps that was part of her Mage Sight? Ah, another happy surprise, come to think of it. She was a natural Soothsayer, a born-in. He hadn’t yet revealed his own ability in Mage Sight, but perhaps it’d be best to see if that transferred over when he became flesh. A little surprise for her, a fellow Soothsayer who would lead and mentor her more efficiently than he was as a Horcrux. That is, if he still desired it. He might yet escape the diary and find that his attachment to her was more his container’s failing than his soul’s; it’s a more likely argument, after all.

But he was getting ahead of himself, was he not?

_I think you should introduce yourself first, don’t you think?_

_Draco Malfoy, heir of the Noble House of Malfoy._

Impatient.

_Hello, Draco Malfoy. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary?_

 

**…**

 

He learns much from Draco Malfoy.

(Too much, really. Possession is intrusive to the point where Tom can view the boy’s memories in his diary if he so wishes, which is rather disturbing. He does not much _like_ the spoiled brat, nor does he care for his experiences, though they prove informative.)

Foremost is that Guinevere _played him._

Him.

Tom realizes now that he know more about modern Muggles than he does about modern wizards. He assumed that the wizarding world was the same as it had been when he was still flesh. He assumed, of course, that the war in which Guinevere lost most of her Family had been the war that had been raging in Europe when he was still alive. Grindelwald’s war. The Second Great War. She’d told him the war ended in 1981.

It was a different bloody war entirely.

It was a different Dark Lord entirely.

It was the Other.

Tom is part furious, part incredulous, part shocked, and — he’ll admit it — part in awe.

This changes everything, he realizes. Guinevere’s emotions were genuine, he truly believes that as a Soothsayer, and much of her small talk and ridiculousness must be true, because most of it was inane and _useless to him._ She told him about past events and history and Muggle things and developments in _warding_ , but not about the current political landscape, her opinions on it, the names of her closest friends and family — _nothing._ Nothing he could use against her, not really.

No bloody wonder it seemed oddly difficult, grasping onto her soul. _No bloody wonder._

Had she ever really trusted him?

And… if she hadn’t… and he already favored her so much… what would it be like when she _did_ trust him entirely?

(He feels he should be alarmed, how quickly he cycles from fury to awe to eagerness.)

Tom is a curious person. He always has been. Guinevere has always been pleasant surprise after pleasant surprise, with smatterings of annoyance and childishness, but this… She is much, _much_ cleverer than he thought she was, and he already thought her quite clever. What they could do together, side-by-side, _in the flesh…_

He pulls at the Malfoy’s brat’s magic harder, gripping at the rough stone and trickles of water — weak, but stronger than the Parkinson girl’s, how Rowan would despair of such a weak servant for his lord — and almost alerts Malfoy to his presence. He’s learned from Guinevere that there are ways for him to encourage trust and fascination, certain ways to coax magical exchange; it’s obvious, to a Soothsayer, or so Tom thinks, because Guinevere always noticed when he tried with her so he refrained. But Malfoy is laughably oblivious, so Tom speeds up the process freely, impatiently.

He cannot _wait_ to take Malfoy’s soul and see Guinevere with his own eyes, hear her with his own ears, judge her completely and freely.

He cannot _wait_ for the Potter boy to follow the breadcrumbs laid by the basilisk.

The Other is pathetic — destroyed by a mere _infant_ — and Tom would like nothing more than to rip him into pieces and shove _him_ in a timeless loop of memory and nothingness, but they are still kin. He ought to avenge that sort of thing, he thinks. And then he’ll do better than the Other did, be smarter, be stronger. Take the wizarding world by force with Guinevere by his side — she would make a fine apprentice, once he cured her of her more stupid qualities — and the corpse of Harry Potter left behind him.

Yes, that is a lovely thought, indeed.

 

**…**

 

He is possessing Draco Malfoy and he sees her.

That must be her. She walks, huddled with three other figures, all taller than her. The tallest is white-blonde, much like Malfoy, and even grey-eyed, but his face is of that stone-like expression that comes with intense Occlumency training from a young age; he wears his uniform neatly, walks in place with a girl much shorter than himself rather well, born of practice. His voice is accented. He must be Dietrich Bastion.

(Annoyance. So tightly glued to Guinevere that it’s going to be a pain to pry him off. Best not to kill him if he can, since she rather likes the boy. Tom might find a use for him, but he rather doubts it. The boy is, despite having a Grey core, rather Light.)

The next tallest has long, reddish-brown hair that is braided, swept over a shoulder. Impeccably dressed, posture alert, his gait honed with dueling training, tainted only by the slightly hunched shoulders. Deep-set eyes, large and girlish, green and soft. There’s a general softness about him, and his hands are stained with ink. Julius Rookwood, then. The shy artist.

(So, so Dark. This one will be easy to keep, Tom knows. He knew a Rookwood in school, but the boy was very cold and independent. Resisted Tom quite a bit. He knows from Malfoy that the Other somehow made the man’s son loyal, that Augustus Rookwood. It shouldn’t be hard to do with the grandson, who trembles like he’s made of cracked glass.)

And of course Tristan Harper. Dark skinned, curly-haired, doe-eyed. Beaming, excitable, fidgety. Messy uniform, talking incessantly, hanging off of Guinevere’s arm. There’s a wildness to his magic, an electric spark that surprises Tom. The boy is spoken of fondly, exasperatedly; he’s the one who likes blowing things up, likes experimenting. If anyone would make Guinevere’s beloved video games, it would be him, provided he could concentrate long enough.

(Rather useless, isn’t he? Constantly being taught, constantly underfoot. And Malfoy said something about a mental illness… the boy Guinevere so fondly spoke of will be a nuisance. He would do better as a pet, probably, for her. Something to amuse herself with, perhaps. Tom never needed something like that, but Guinevere _is_ very different from him, though he rather respects her mental and magical capabilities.)

Tom knows them by description from Guinevere, name from Draco Malfoy. The brat complains about them enough.

It’s her that he hones in on, however. Surrounded by the others, allowing them to orbit around her. She told him once, upon his asking, that sometimes her sister called her hair rose-colored. Pure rose-colored. Tom rather thinks it’s like blood, venous blood, dried blood. She’s certainly aggressive enough for something like that. She’s short and tan, freckled, messy. Smiling widely and genuinely, blue eyes sharp.

She’s _young._ He forgot just how young she was. She always seemed older.

“-probably has a broom set out for you, too.”

“Stolen, more like.”

“Yes, Dietrich, if you want to get snippy about it. _Stolen._ Honestly, are you a Slytherin or aren’t you?”

“Tch. Vaisey is a rich name, if not noble. Why does he not buy?”

“Because his old man’s a-”

“Because Lord Vaisey doesn’t pay much attention to Lu.”

“That’s the PG version, by Jay.”

“Question question question! What’s PG?”

Tom draws back as they walk away. He almost follows them, taking a few steps in their direction. So that’s what they sound like… That’s what _she_ sounds like. She speaks much like how she writes, when she’s in a hurry. 

(He wants to know her. He wants to understand. And when he’s done understanding, he wants to keep her. She’s the only person he’s ever found, in all these years, he’s truly wanted to keep. Perhaps she’ll become boring later, something he’ll have to throw away, but he rather doesn’t think so, and that in itself is a feat. How does she do this? Make him think she’s interesting?)

(He wants to know.)

But he can’t follow. Draco Malfoy won’t stay sleeping forever, and the basilisk is waiting.

Soon, he thinks to himself.

 

**…**

 

Ridiculous.

“I know you are not him,  _connard!_  I know what you are. How long were you planning to wear her skin, just as you are doing to Malfoy? Filthy _soul-stealer.”_

Dietrich Bastion is getting to be on Tom’s last nerve.

The notion of him _stealing_ Guinevere’s soul? It irks him, now. He had decided against it for a reason: Guinevere is exceptional. Does Bastion think him _blind_ to that? Does he think him _stupid?_ Why would anyone steal her soul after knowing how mysteriously it works? A buffoon, Tom thinks. Dietrich Bastion thinks he’s an _idiot._

And weak, besides. As if a child’s _Adustio_ could break this shield. This is a ward even Guinevere would have trouble with. Silent-casting, shortened ritual — it was almost a spell, really — and almost impossible for an immature core. Almost.

“Your magic is giving, little boy,” Tom points out.

The fire sputters. It’s a well-formed whip, he’ll give it that, but Bastion has a small core. It cannot sustain this powerful of a spell. How did Bastion even learn it enough to cast? The incompetence of Hogwarts professors, or the arrogance of a mewling pureblood heir? Tom can believe either way; it might even be a mixture.

“If I can weaken yours, it will give Lys more to work with. She will fight you, soul-stealer. She was half believing that you were her friend, but I know what sort of  _creature_  you are,” the boy says, sweat pouring down his face and eyes hard. A pitiful display of bravery and power.

Half believing that…

Tom feels fury flash in his chest.

What little trust she had in him, Bastion _destroyed it. Unacceptable._

“You turned her against me.”

Dammit. Dammit. _Goddammit._ It would be a complete and utter _waste_ if Guinevere would not join him. He didn’t want to reveal his presence to Dumbledore right away, of course. He just wanted to kill Potter and Malfoy and maybe this one, too, and take her and go. Or maybe instate her here at Hogwarts as his spy. No, probably take her and go. It’d be boring, having to communicate in writing again. But if Bastion destroyed that chance…

The boy was going to _suffer._

If only he could cast a Cruciatus at the moment. Too much with the ward, he thinks.

“Lys will never let you kill anyone, even Malfoy. She is too noble for such a thing.”

“Another thing that will kill her.” Guinevere — Lys? For her middle name, he supposes. — picks up bad habits from her family. Bad companions, too. “Merlin save us from Gryffindor nobility. I’ll have to train that out of her.”

“She is not a dog to train tricks into, you  _fils de pute!”_

Tom is petty enough that he feels glee at the offense on Bastion’s face. He laughs. Tries to bring it out a little more. The boy’s magic is being eaten up by this Fire-Whip, almost as fast as Fiendfyre takes Tom’s own.

“Oh, but she  _will_  play fetch, won’t she? How willingly do you think Guinevere will walk into my arms if I’m dangling something she wants right in front of her? Something like, say… her much beloved Second.”

Bastion honest-to-god _growls_. _“You can’t have her.”_

What a ridiculous notion.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Dietrich Bastion.”

(She already belonged to Tom, as far as he cared.)

“I can have whatever I want.”

 

**…**

 

“He won’t wake. Neither of them will.” Tom says, quietly marveling in recognizing his own voice.

The chamber is cold and echoing, the light pale and tinted with green. Stone serpents line the path the basilisk takes to leave, as if bowing to their king in procession. The floor is polished black marble so clear and reflective that the two pale boys lying in its center have ghost-like shadows, blurs of white, around their barely-breathing bodies. From a distance, they could be siblings. Brothers in death, in sacrifice.

Draco Malfoy breathes uneasily, sensing even in his state of unconsciousness that his soul is being drained away. Tom Riddle runs his magic through the rough stone and water droplets and hot air like breath, scooping out portions and folding it into himself; the metaphor is heavy-handed but he is precise and subtle as he siphons the boy’s magic, using a soul to craft a body for himself. Dietrich Bastion is simply Stunned and exhausted; Tom thought it fitting to drain Bastion’s rather inconsiderable core as well, if only to mollify the offense the boy dragged out of him further.

(Petty, perhaps. But Tom rather thinks pettiness has its place; Guinevere — Lys? Bastion was quite adamant on calling her such, and much to Tom’s annoyance, there are few who know her as well as Dietrich Bastion does — well. Guinevere is ridiculous, but her petty acts are humorous and she laughs when she describes them, and Tom knows himself enough to admit they amuse him.)

“Tom — Tom Riddle?”

Ah, and then there’s Potter. Scrawny and dark-haired, brows furrowed over hideous glasses and poisonously green eyes, clothes dragging against the grime of the floor. He kneels down near Bastion, hands tentatively resting near the boy’s pulse points — which indicates a certain amount of sense, Tom will give him that — but looks at Tom. They are four figures dwarfed by the might of Slytherin’s ancient secret, and the air is cold enough and damp enough that Potter’s fingers are clumsy with numbess.

Not him, yet, however. He’s not quite that corporeal.

Soon, though.

Potter recovers rather admirably for a Muggle-raised Gryffindor who spoke to Tom only once worth mentioning. “What d’you mean he- they won’t wake?” asks the boy, “Bastion and Malfoy aren’t- they aren’t-?”

“Still alive,” Tom supplies helpfully. “Bastion is in perfect physical health, in fact. Malfoy… well. Still alive. But only just.”

Potter’s eyes narrow.

(Tom would’ve been disappointed — more than he already was — if they hadn’t.)

“You’re not a ghost.”

“I told you before, Harry Potter,” Tom answers softly, not showing his amusement at Potter’s confusion, “I am a memory. Preserved in a diary for fifty years. It’s just over there, you know.” He points at it, letting his distaste for the thing show.

Potter glances at it, and as he does, his gaze passes over Malfoy and sharpens at the sight. Understandable. Malfoy is quite fair normally, but his skin is near-translucent now, and it makes the blue and green of his veins stand out like ink on paper. Stark. His breathing is shallow and slow, like the boy is suffocating even as his face is angled perfectly to breathe.

Harry Potter doesn’t hesitate, scrambling over to Malfoy, hovering a palm over his mouth and nose to feel the air go in and out. He sighs, then looks at Tom determinedly.

“Come help me with- with both of them. We’ve got to get them out of here, Tom. You take Bastion, I’ll grab Malfoy. There’s a basilisk… I don’t know where it is, but it could be along any moment. Along with whoever the heir is, but that’s not- Please, help me.” The boy lifts Malfoy up with a bit of struggle. His wand rolls across the floor, and Tom flicks out his fingers, smiling when his magic reaches for the wand and it hums in his palm. Not a perfect fit, but quite close. Potter doesn’t notice. “Did you see my-? Oh. Thanks-”

Tom smiles at the feel of the wand in his fingers. It’s been too long.

Potter’s expression tints with annoyance. “Listen! We’ve got to go. If the basilisk comes-”

“It won’t come until it’s called.” Tom says.

“What? What d’you mean- No, look, give me my wand, I might need it-”

Foolish boy. Letting his wand just roll around all over the place, Potter was practically _asking_ for it to be stolen. Stupid, but it is all the better for Tom. “You won’t be needing it.”

“What d’you mean, I won’t be needing…?”

“I’ve waited a long time for this, Harry Potter,” Tom says. He reaches out tentatively, and just managed to suppress the jolt that is Potter’s magic. There’s a static shock, wind whistling through your hair, warm sun on your cooled skin, stretching your arms out after being curled up for just too long. Very powerful- No. It’s Light magic with the _potential_ to be powerful. “For the chance to see you. To speak with you.”

“Look! I don’t think you get it. We’re in the Chamber of Secrets. You grab Bastion while I get Malfoy, we can talk later-”

Tom chuckles softly. “We’re going to talk now.”

Harry Potter’s been drawing back since he noticed Tom with his wand, but now he narrows his eyes. Finally and totally suspicious. He hesitates, glancing between the wand Tom’s still holding and Malfoy’s translucent face. “How did Malfoy get like this?”

“Well, that’s an interesting question. And quite a long story. I suppose the real reason Draco Malfoy’s like this is because he opened his heart and spilled all his secrets to an invisible stranger.”

His secrets, and others besides.

(Guinevere would have never-)

“What are you talking about?”

“The diary.  _My_  diary. We should go to the beginning, though. It started with Guinevere Lysandra Weasley — who, actually, I had been hoping to see. It was the only reason Dietrich Bastion was brought here, you know.”

Looking at her through Malfoy’s eyes would be different than through his own, would it not? Perhaps he would not so wish to- be so sentimental and attached, if he were no longer trapped in nothingness. Surely his clinging to her was due to having his freedom ripped from his hands after so many years spent trying to get it, being locked in darkness with nothing but the writing of a clever girl. He needed to know, to test this.

(He needed to _see_ her.)

“What’s this got to do with Lys?”

Well. From two sources, he supposes he can’t refute the name anymore. “Hm. Lys, is she called? She never let me call her that. And I suppose that’s why I wanted to see her, in the  _flesh_. You see, Harry Potter, it was Guinevere —  _Lys_  — who had my diary first. She wrote to me of her life, of her troubles and triumphs... and it was not until I fell into the hands of young Draco there that I truly realized how very  _Slytherin_  she was. I have never  _lost_  to anyone before her!”

She _tricked_ him, which meant he _lost._

It was unacceptable.

It was _impossible._

But that isn’t important now. She is not here, and Tom has things to do. The last of a soul to drain. A nuisance to kill. An Other to avenge. A basilisk to command. Guinevere is the least of his worries at the moment.

And then…

Well.

And then she isn’t.

 

**…**

 

His body is not quite finished, yet. It’s solidifying, magic crafted of an innocent’s soul winding into the tissue of heart and lungs and muscle and bone and sinew, but Tom is not quite alive yet. He is _so close_.

Close enough that when he sees her sees her, his heart clenches.

He feels it, and his hand flies to his chest as if he wants to force it to stop himself.

She flies out from nowhere, bloody hair and closed eyes and a snarl on her face, wand pointed and voice roaring spells no eleven-year-old has a right to know. He feels her magic roll against his skin, soft, summer night breeze, the flow of water over sun-burned skin, silk on the pads of your fingers, smooth pebbles gathered in your hands, snake skin coiling around your wrist all soft and deceptively weak. She is exactly as he remembers, and when she opens her eyes and he sees how blue and angry and full of magic they are, she is better than he remembers.

And of course, the first thing she says to him — second-first thing she says to him, he still remembers her calm _Hello, T.M. Riddle._ — is something ridiculous.

She has always been ridiculous.

Ah.

So there is no corruption. There is no mistake.

It is good that he planned for this possibility.

(Inevitability.)

 

**…**

 

**(This is how the story goes.)**

Tom is not quite sure how the conversation spun from his implication that he would put Lys under the Imperius to keep her to… this. He expected anger when he so simply stated that she would be his, whether she wanted it or not, but that’s not what happened. This is.

This.

He does not even know what ‘this’ _is_.

Because she is ridiculous, she will not allow him to kill the Malfoy brat. Bastion was right about that one, unfortunately. Because she is even more ridiculous than _that,_ though, she still wants him to live. Lys wants Tom to live and it’s jarring to hear the words from her mouth, to see the stupidly sincere and ridiculous expression on her face that hides nothing. She wants Tom to live because she _enjoys_ his presence — not his power, not his reputation, not his protection, not what he can give her, not what she can take from him, _all of that and more_ — and it makes something in him ache.

Something that he crushes, ruthlessly, because Tom needs no such sentiments.

(He doesn’t crush it completely.)

“You want me to live?”

Lys looks at him oddly. He doesn’t recognize the expression that well, but the twist of her magic feels… sad. Any other day, he would call it pathetic, and it is, but Tom cannot help but push the thoughts away when it comes to Lys.

“Everyone deserves it.” Lys states cautiously.

It’s good that she remains careful. He would’ve written her off as an idiot like the rest of them if she weren’t aware of how very dangerous a position she was in. But Lys so did love to exceed expectations, didn’t she?

Tom chuckles. The Potter boy, halfway to the basilisk and near-keeling over, flinches at the sound, as he should. Lys, though… Lys stands strong, unafraid.

“Even me, dear Lys?”

In the context of her soft-hearted world views, Tom does not deserve to live. Ridiculous girl. This would be very different if she finally opened her eyes to the fact that some people were just below others, that some people just weren’t important enough to care about, that there were the ones who drowned and then those who drowned them and _nothing else_ … Well, if Lys had finally turned to the true line of thought, the _only_ line of thought, Tom would be rather happy. But he knows she has not, and her defense of him despite everything is… baffling.

Her eyes are like chips of ice, that’s how he’d describe them, but sometimes they soften into the pale pastel sky and it feels like softness brushing against shaded skin. Sometimes she looks like this, like now, and he stills at the sight of it. No one has ever looked at him like that before.

(Like they saw the jaggedness that was his soul and loved him for it.)

(Ridiculous.)

“You never have, have you?”

“I was alive, once.” Tom states, a slight perplexed.

“What you were doing? That’s not living. Living is being in the company of your friends and smiling real smiles and whatnot. Living isn’t looking at someone — the first person you see or whatever the bloody hell I was — and wanting their companionship so badly that you’d threaten an Imperius for it.”

Tom freezes.

Lys goes on, laughing to herself, her magic singing with self-deprecation:

“I can’t believe it, honestly. You _actually like me._ And- And don’t you deny it, Tom, you idiot. You think I don’t know what a lonely boy looks like? My entire friend group is comprised of the loneliest souls in Hogwarts, you know. I’d be a bloody _moron_ if I didn’t… if I didn’t recognize you.”

Unbelievable.

He narrows his eyes. “I am not a pathetic _child_ needing someone to hold my hand, _Lys._ Least of all little girls who give their souls away so easily, who take in with such — as you say — pitiful company willingly-”

“Defensive,” Lys noted unflinchingly, unknowingly making Tom nervous for no reason at all, “But that’s not my point here. My point, Tom, is that I’m an idiot and even though you’ve done some really messed up shit, I think of you as- as my friend.”

The words cut straight to Tom.

“Ridiculous,” he murmurs, just a whisper in the silent Chamber of Secrets.

Lys smiles crookedly. “That’s me.”

Tom twitches, but he isn’t sure why. He wants to do… something. Approach her? Something. He’s not sure. He wants to move but he doesn’t know what he wants to do. He wants something, he wants to react, but he doesn’t know… This is unprecedented and has never happened before, and of course Lys is at the heart of it, and he despises being caught on the wrong foot like this. Being surprised so utterly that he doesn’t even know _how_ to figure out how to react. What to do.

Her magic goes colder and stiffer. Sadder.

A soft expression, but different. Tired.

“Do you think if I were born in your time, we could have been friends and you would’ve actually lived the way mine are supposed to?” Lys asks.

Tom snorts. He can respond to _that_ claim, at least. “And how are _yours_ supposed to live?”

“There’s only one way they should. Happily. Safely. Surrounded by people who like them and make life worth it.” Lys shoots off immediately.

“Pretty sentiment.”

“You want to _Imperio_ me just so you have my friendship, stupid.”

“You’re worth more to me alive.”

“Funny, that. I also place a lot of worth on the ones I call mine.” she counters, because of course that’s how she counters him. That she dares in the first place is already worth noting, but that she does it in her ridiculous way…

Tom sighs.

(For some reason, he feels as if he’s… lost. He feels tired like he never has. There is water all around him, making him float, and he feels like he’s a breath away from letting it just carry him off. Somehow, Lys has always made him… content to wither away. It must be that her magic feels like water to him, water that he doesn’t fear.)

So does Lys.

“You know we can’t let you revive yourself using Malfoy’s soul, Tom.”

He raises a brow. “Even though you have stated I deserve to live?”

Lys smiles gently. “I wish you could. But I can’t allow you to make me an accessory to murder, even for the git whose throne I’m trying to take, and I can’t leave Dietrich here, and I can’t join you under an Imperius, and I can’t abandon Harry. I wish you could live but you’re gone, Tom. You’re dead.”

“I could _not_ be.”

“Yes. But the price… I won’t allow it. I _can’t_. That isn’t who I am.”

The words cut him. Lys’ words are always sharp, even when she doesn’t mean for them to be. He would admire that if he weren’t at the receiving end of them, always. “Then why this _farce?”_ Tom snaps. “Why spout on about friendship and frivolities when you should be _killing me?_ ”

(Betraying me, he wants to say.)

“Because I didn’t want to win without saying goodbye. Without you knowing that if Fate had been kinder, I would’ve done anything for you, just like I’d do anything for all of mine.” Lys said quietly, “I guess I’m just ridiculous that way.”

The words ring and echo in his head.

_I would’ve done anything for you._

There were those who’d said such words before. Declarations of loyalty and whatnot from his Death Eaters. Swooning schoolgirls, so enamored with the handsome Tom Riddle they’d say such stupid things. Flattery and falsehoods and emptiness.

The words ring but they do not do so falsely. They ring with more promise than anything.

(Is this what it is, to be claimed so thoroughly by this ridiculous, impossible girl? If so… Well, it is no wonder Dietrich Bastion’s faith in her is so unshaken, no wonder Draco Malfoy’s wariness of her so potent.)

“You are.” he says. Is all he can say.

And he knows what’s going to happen.

Potter sways, but he is not as incapable as Tom thought he was. He knows that he’s given both children more than enough time to creep closer to his basilisk, to his diary, whichever, whatever. Some part of Tom accepts that he’s going to die, and it’s all the more stupid and pathetic because he’s _alright_ with it, after Lys’ words and after knowing a fate that is… likely worse than death. As close to death as he will ever be; the nothingness, the numbness, the… the anchoring of his shard of soul to a world that had evidently cast him out fifty years ago.

Longer, probably.

He wonders if death will be like the nothingness, or if it will be like the cool waters of Lys’ magic.

He knows what he prefers.

(Lys is his friend and she wants him to die and he’s never had a friend before and-)

(And-)

(And-)

( _I would’ve done anything for you._ )

Tom doesn’t quite know what to do, but at the same time, he feels he cannot stop what he is doing now. Allowing to happen now. He is frozen and shocked to the core and there are snake scales, smooth and warm-cool on his skin, as familiar to him as the dust in the orphanage is — to his endless frustration — but much more pleasing.

(He had a snake, once. Long ago. It was killed, but it was… maybe… a friend.)

(It’s been so long since he’s had one of those. Tom barely remembers what that feels like.)

(He’s starting to, though.)


	5. The End of All Things (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were so many things that went wrong. And there was one that went very, very right.

 

**…**

 

Tom Riddle does not believe in gods. He has only ever believed in himself.

_(Hello, T.M. Riddle.)_

It’s pretty vexing to be proven wrong and not have the time to defend or refute. She has always lived to be vexing, however, in every way she can. Her magic is all snakes and water, things that are safe and familiar and something that is everything Tom has ever stood against. Weakness. Victimization. Death.

He doesn’t understand.

His vision goes dark and there is no longer scales or silk or water on his skin. It slips away even as he tries to hold onto it, dripping death and beauty in his hands like he’s ever wanted either of those things before. He is floating in nothing, in darkness, and rather than constricting him and making him choke on his own boredom, it is somewhat…

It’s pathetic, really.

A sailor is lost at sea, and rather than swim upwards and take in air, he sighs out his lungs and sinks into the dark. He becomes bones and coral, rotting flesh growing over with neon color, part of the sea that killed him, lapping at the shoreline and carrying silk and scales and smoothed-over pebbles and glass into the depths to hide and keep forever. She’ll never get that back, the things he took, fistfuls of death and beauty; he hopes it hurts her, he hopes the loss burns, he hopes there will be scars seared into her soul, because for every tear she weeps later — and she will, because she is _ridiculous_ — Tom Riddle breathes again.

He doesn’t understand.

His mind is fragmenting into every which way. Death doesn’t make _sense._ It annoys him more than it already did.

Tom Riddle drowns and does not pray because he does not believe in gods, but he hopes that when he is evaporated into the world that she will stand in the rain and feel it when he says _Hello again, you ridiculous girl._

 

**…**

 

His eyes blink open.

He _breathes._

“Tom?”

“I’ve always despised that name.”

The… The surprising thing was that _he_ said that. Tom. That was his voice, which he thought he’d never really have again, along with the throat that contained it, the lungs connected, the ability to breathe. He blinks again, vision blurry and light piercing his eyes, and someone to his right laughs — young, childish, relieved, a gust of breath.

“Oh, they have _you_ on the _good stuff._ ”

Recognition snaps into place.

He turns, blurred vision honing in on a blob of dark red. The vague shape of a face is there, somewhere. He can’t see very well, but really, Tom shouldn’t be able to see _at all._

“Lys.” he whispers.

The face tilts a little. He thinks she smiles. “I never gave you permission to call me that, prat.” Lys teases him.

His vision begins to clear, albeit slowly. White blobs are sharpening into arched windows and curtains, a Hospital Wing bed with its too-thin blankets, a side table littered with clear vials, a chair containing a girl with a crooked smile. She’s wearing white, too, looking as if she just snuck out of her own bed. He can’t see the details yes, but he’s getting there, and as his visual accuracy increases, so does his confusion.

Was he delusional in death? He had thought he’d gotten past that, what with the whole… fracturing apart visions. He tries not to walk that line of thought too closely, however, with a new slew of confusing elements about him. Later, when he knows what on bloody earth is going on.

“Explain.” is all Tom can think to say at the moment.

One of her brows rises. It occurs to Tom that he can’t actually feel her magic, which makes it infinitely harder — paired with his disturbing lack of _clear vision_ — to pick out what she is feeling. He’ll guess annoyance, for now.

“Well. I suppose you being as pathetically lonely as you were-”

He growls, but decides against protest both because Lys is obviously teasing and because he rather really needs answers _now._

“-I think Harry felt bad for you. He stabbed your diary, right, and that’s why…” Her smile fades, now. “That’s why you started to disintegrate. But then… But then, the sword still in the book and everything, Harry goes, ‘Does he need a human soul for a body?’ And from there, it’s all a mad rush because you were falling to pieces while, could barely do anything, I was cranking my Mage Sight up to see you and Malfoy’s magical connection and how to transfer your parasitic spell to the basilisk’s soul, and I don’t think you were really conscious but you were somehow _helping me…_ Oh, and the basilisk didn’t like it at all, it turned against us, Harry got bit and had to fight it, Fawkes cried on him, I was protecting you and the two unconscious boys- You were really not having the basilisk’s soul, so I was literally using my magic to make a pathway for you, I was _exhausted_ , really, and… And then right before it tried to eat Harry for the hundredth time, it just… dropped dead, and you were solid and breathing.”

She says it all in a rush, but Tom understands.

He’s.

Alive.

Tom is alive and-

Tom is alive and so is she and no one died but the basilisk and he owes a Life Debt to Potter and-

(He does not believe in gods, but perhaps he believes in miracles.)

“Yes, I was just as dumbfounded as you are. Potter’s got all the luck, really — a complicated ritual that uses a sentient soul to create a body for another, and what does he do? He bastardizes it with nine little words and goes and fights a basilisk while I tear my core to pieces trying to keep you alive…”

“…I don’t understand.”

Lys sharpens into focus as he utters the words, and whatever else he was going to say is lost as he marvels. His own eyes, looking at someone for the first time in a half century. She looks… paler than she should. There are faint bags under her eyes. She frowns at him.

“I know I spoke a bit quick, but it’s not-”

He shakes his head. “No. Just… Why did Potter spare me? Pity only carries so much.”

Lys blinks. “Ah. Well… Harry’s just… one of those rare souls, you know? Someone who’s really a hero. Who really cares about other people. He put two and two together, you know, and figured that if you still had capacity to care for someone, you weren’t irredeemable. Which I stole from Alby, of course, but Harry thought it up.”

“…Alby.”

She grins, and it brightens her entire face. “Alby. Dumbledore. You know?”

Alby. The man who dueled the Dark Lord Grindelwald. The most powerful wizard in Western Europe. The Supreme Mugwump of the ICW. The Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Apparently the Headmaster of Hogwarts. A known associate of _Nicholas Flamel._ The biggest thorn in Tom’s side. Albus Dumbledore.

And this ridiculous, precious girl calls him _Alby_.

By Merlin, Tom never stood a chance, did he?

He laughs, long and hard, into his hands, then unabashedly out loud, alongside Lys, whose hand as somehow found his without his notice. He tightens his fingers around hers, and despite knowing Albus Dumbledore is lurking nearby, despite the utter alien time he is now it, despite a botched ritual and all the numerous crimes he’s committed unforgiven… Tom is not afraid.

 

**…**

 

He should have been.

“Why do I have to live with _you?”_ he hisses, acting and feeling a petulant child.

Albus Dumbledore, old and wizened and more annoying than he’d been fifty years ago, smiles. His bloody eyes _twinkle._ “Well, my dear boy, _someone_ had to take you in. After the lengths I went through to pass you off as a fortunate accident to the Ministry, it was only right that I saw this through to the end.”

Tom wishes his magical control weren’t as disgusting as it was, because he’d dearly love to set the bastard’s beard on fire.

Or maybe the cuffs on his wrists.

“Those,” Dumbledore adds as he glances to them, “are for me to monitor your magic usage. Ministry-grade. I do believe in second chances, Tom-” He wants to spit at the name, but Dumbledore’s face darkens. He feels something almost like fear at the sight of the uncharacteristic _danger_ , the type that tipped Tom off years ago as to the true nature of the man’s power. “-but I would like to believe I am far from stupid. Harry Potter and Lys Weasley asked for mercy for your sake, and I am willing to grant it, but should I believe you are walking the same path you did after you were cast from Voldemort’s soul fifty years past, I will not risk the wizarding world. I will not risk _them._ Do you understand, Mr. Riddle?”

Tom isn’t the eleven-year-old idiot that would look down at his toes after being chastised by a man whose power drowns everyone else’s. He holds his head high, walking smoothly beside the old fool — not behind — as they traverse a dirt path in a wooded area. It’s warm and the day is idyllically beautiful, and Tom isn’t surprised at all that Dumbledore owns a cabin in some backwater like this.

(He isn’t fool enough to believe this is Dumbledore’s permanent residence. Much too many chances for Tom to act upon, in such a vulnerable quarters. But the paperwork said so, and Tom can only grind his teeth together at the obvious show of power that he himself cannot posses.)

“So I suppose one toe out of line means execution?” Tom sneers.

Dumbledore chuckles. “Oh no. What sort of guardian would I be, disciplining a child like that? No, for every infraction against the rules I shall set up momentarily, I think I will withhold your contact with Lys.”

Tom feels his heart drop despite itself.

The old bastard certainly has his number, doesn’t he?

(He should be _much_ more concerned about that, but at the present moment, there are other things to be worried about.)

“Fine,” he bites out.

Dumbledore probably read the thoughts straight off his face, Occlumency-trained or no. Infuriating. Tom feels humiliation at every sweep of twinkling, blue eyes; it’s part of why Tom hates the man so much.

“That said,” Dumbledore says, “I feel like I ought to apologize.”

Tom startles at this. “What?”

The man turns to him, the expression on his face pitying and soft. “I’m sorry, Tom. I’m sorry that I didn’t look after you better. When we first met, I was intimidated by your skill in magic, at such a young age, and your dissatisfaction with the world around you. I labeled you a threat as soon as we met, rather than attempt to understand and channel your abilities and drive into something better, something that would give you true friends rather than followers.”

What the hell is this?

A trick. It must be.

Tom snarls. “You were right to fear me, old man. Look what I became. I aspired to be the next Grindelwald, apparently. Even taking out of account all the things that occurred before I created my Horcrux, the fact remains that I created one, and that I set loose the beast of Slytherin in your precious Hogwarts.”

Dumbledore’s expression doesn’t shift. “I was right to fear, but for the wrong reasons. My own hesitance cost you a better childhood than you should’ve received. Myrtle Warren’s death was an accidental one, which you capitalized on, but I do not doubt the resourcefulness of Slytherins. And I know well that you were not born for evil, because you have the loyalty and affections of one of the purest souls I’ve ever met.”

Tom twitches.

The old man smiles. “Lys might be Dark in core, and her House might be Slytherin, and she may have all the cunning and will to dominate in the world, but she is very pure. Her one desire is to protect the people she loves the most, through any means necessary. You are counted among them, and from what I’ve seen, you — at least in part — reciprocate. There is good in you, Tom Riddle, and I am sorry that I never saw it before.”

He looks away, unsure of what to say. What _does_ one say to that?

“Ah! Here we are. Larkspur Cottage, one of my many places of residence.”

A meadow stretches out before them, the trees giving way to wild grass and — how fitting — clumps of blooming larkspur. Purples, yes, but also dashes of rose-pink and faint cherry blossom and white and indigo. The cottage looks like it was ripped out of a child’s dream, stone and wood grown over with leafy vines and windows lit and chimney smoking. All that’s missing is a wheelhouse and a river, really.

_Lys would like it,_ is his first thought.

_Merlin, I’ve become a pathetic, codependent_ child _,_ is his second.

Then, _I’m going to be living in a princess-esque cottage with Albus bloody Dumbledore for the rest of my life._

“The House Elf here is named Fiddle, and there’s a barn owl waiting near the window in the room I’ve set aside for you, with a quill and paper prepared. Lys passes along the order that you write her as soon as you can. Though, of course, I’ve a pot of Floo powder near the fireplace, and the Weasley residence is called ‘The Burrow’-”

Tom is already darting towards the red-painted door.

Dumbledore calls to his back, “Welcome home, Tom!”

 

**…**

 

He doesn’t realize that some part of him is a little… _afraid_ that things are different, that she’ll look differently at him or he at her, until Lys takes one look at him — soot-covered from the fireplace, standing awkwardly after her mother’s welcomed him in with nary an alarmed glance and shooed the pack that is Lys’ siblings out the door — and then drags him to the table, where he waits until she slams down a half dozen books and a dozen rolls of parchment and some bottles of ink with quills, then puts her hands on her hips, and demands:

“We were halfway through quick-cast blood wards. Let’s go.”

Holding back a sigh of relief, he does.

(He was worried. He thought maybe his corporealness would be jarring for her, or that her revealing what she’d hidden from him would do the same, or that something would have been lost in the pages of the diary, or that somehow he wouldn’t feel that odd, fuzzy, sort-of-freeing feeling that he does when Lys manages to make him laugh or he pokes fun at her-)

(But it’s still there. She’s still her, and he’s a bit better than he was, and it’s-)

(He doesn’t know.)

(It makes him smile.)

He leaves as politely as he can, nodding to Mrs. Weasley and avoiding the narrowed eyes of Mr. Weasley and the eldest and youngest brother present — the twins are friendly, but Tom sees their sharp eyes and cautious glances. Albus Dumbledore awaits him at Larkspur Cottage, reading _The Daily Prophet_ late and chatting amicably to the House Elf, Fiddle. They eat dinner in stilted silence, because Tom hates the man but is rather grateful that he was allowed to see Lys so early, and in the morning when Tom wakes up again he’s confused as he always is when he wakes up because he’s never sure if he’s going to open his eyes to nothingness and emptiness and suffocation.

The next day goes more or less the same, though the youngest Weasley brother attempts to snarl at him; Tom is saved from having to make the boy cry when Lys’ twin — who looks rather unlike her, he would surprised to hear they were twins rather than just siblings — drags him from the room. Lys and Tom finish quick-cast blood wards and were he still a Horcrux, they’d move into more complicated matrixes or maybe into rituals drawn on skin, but he is not, and instead she harangues him into practical application. He promises for the next day, perhaps, and then goes home to dinner with a too-cheerful Albus Dumbledore and his equally cheerful House Elf. 

The day after that, he and Lys go to the fields behind the Weasley abode and practice dueling. He returns to Albus less snippy and more tired, having used all of his energy to appear as competent and skilled as he makes himself out to be. He is much less practiced in this new body of his, and it shows. Lys probably noticed, but she said nothing and Tom’s grateful for it.

(Something in him screams that he shouldn’t be grateful for what is due, that he shouldn’t be this weak in the first place, but Tom is too tired to care.)

In a week, Tom sends a letter to Lys that he can’t come because he’s ill. She instead Floos over to him, bringing her mother’s signature chicken soup recipe. Rather than work on anything, she tells him stories about her friends and family all day and listens as he poorly reciprocates. He doesn’t realize it when she leaves, as she goes after he falls asleep. When he wakes, Dumbledore is in her place, telling him good morning.

In a few weeks after that, he’s trying to calm his frantic heartbeat, because she tells him, “Tom, I think I’m friends with a cambion now.”

“…What do you mean, _you’re friends with a cambion now._ ”

“Er… exactly that?”

“That would imply you’ve _met_ a _cambion._ ”

“Yeah.”

“ _Lys._ ”

“In my defense-”

“There is no defense for _stupidity._ ”

(Later, he finds out that his sheer frustration with Lys’ impulsive recklessness and unceasing worry for her fragile well-being is the only thing he and Dietrich Bastion can agree upon. The thought makes them sick, because he finds he and Dietrich Bastion do not get on well. _At all._ )

Halfway into summer, Tom realizes that he’s friends with Lys’ eldest in-home brother.

They bond over keeping an eye on Lys, learning as much as possible, leading sheep- no, _students,_ among other things. Percival is not as terribly irritating as the rest of Lys’ siblings — the demon twins come to mind — which is another point in his favor. He’s also much quieter and more ambitious than the rest of them — much more Lys-like, basically, — and he regards Tom with a hesitant wariness, still. Ginevra and Ronald have become almost completely accustomed to him, but Percival still remains vigilant; that is something to admire.

“Will you be attending Hogwarts for your N.E.W.T.s?” Percival asks.

They’re setting up the table for dinner. Tom stays sometimes, if Albus allows it. He watches his hands as they set forks and knives, watches his wrists as they glint with the magic-monitoring cuffs. They still rankle, even after all these weeks.

“I am… unsure. I suppose I’ll have to ask Albus.”

“Oh. I just wondered if you would still be Slytherin or if you would be reSorted.”

“I’m sure I’d remain Slytherin.”

Percival shrugs. “You never know. Lys could’ve easily been a Gryffindor.”

Tom thinks of her acquaintance with the cambion. Of her delving into the Chamber of Secrets for little but sentiment and honor. He nods in agreement. “Yes, she could have been. But she’s ever so much more interesting, a snake.”

The other boy eyes him. “Definitely a Slytherin, you. If you go to Hogwarts, I’m sure you’ll either despise Zabini or become good friends. I’m not sure which one’s worse, honestly.”

(Tom has heard a bit of Josephine Zabini from Lys’ stories. He’s rather looking forward to that possible meeting as well. Lys herself thinks it’ll be brilliant, however, no matter what happens, so he’s a bit hesitant. She says ‘brilliant’ the same way she says ‘explosions’, after all.)

There’s a week in the summer that the Weasleys decide to travel to Egypt to visit the true eldest, William. Lys is excited, though she says she’s sorry he’ll be alone most of it. He waves her off, because as much as he enjoys her company, he knows his codependence is dangerous and pathetic. That knowledge doesn’t help him when she’s gone, though, and Fiddle and Albus tut and scold him for moping (“I am _not_ moping, Albus. I am merely… unsure what to do, now that my schedule has been interrupted.” “Of course, my dear boy, of course.” “ _I hate you._ ”) He takes to visiting Diagon Alley — his cuffs won’t allow him near Knockturn, much to his frustration — to explore how different the world is, fifty years wound forward. Not much, not really, but there are little things; missing shops, different owners, new brooms, new books, that sort of thing.

In a way, the time without Lys to cling to (much as he despises that imagery) is… good. He feels better. More sure of himself. It shows, when she returns with armloads of presents, and he finds he doesn’t need to see her face every day just to be sure that he exists. She beams at him when he admits this happy development and tells him, “You just needed a… a _thing._ Something that was yours and yours alone, that you could claim you came up with and did. Something that made you independent, you know?”

She’s always been oddly wise, for a child.

And isn’t that embarrassing, his dependence on a _child._ He doesn’t know whether that marks him as weak or her as strong, but he lends more credence to the latter if only to save himself some face, internally.

At one point in the summer, Albus takes off his restrictions on his Mage Sight — he almost killed the bastard when he found out the man restricted it in the first place — and Tom almost faints at the amount of stimuli in the world. Lys is sympathetic and immediately lends him her copy of _The Magick of Man-Hunters,_ and he spends much time lecturing on skin-painted rituals as they go through the Mage Sight specific one to give both of them a lovely range of control over their ability. Albus is aware immediately, but he says nothing and Tom hates himself for being grateful — towards _Albus Dumbledore_ — for it.

By the end of summer, Tom is well-known to the Weasley household even if most are still rather distrusting of him — or rather, all of them are suspicious, but a select few are more subtle about it than others, including Lys — and he is not quite apoplectically angry every time Albus Dumbledore shows his face. The barn owl, Catha, and the House Elf, Fiddle, are both rather affectionate towards him, the former more than the latter, and he has a collection of letters from Lys and Percival organized in his desk. Albus has a stupid tendency to go picking larkspur and leaving it around everywhere, so there are dried bundles of those hanging around the rafters of his room.

He has a trunk packed and Catha in a cage, the Hogwarts uniform foreign and familiar to him as he wears it. Albus is passing him off as the younger relative of a mysteriously disappeared Tom Riddle — he is pretending to be his own grandson — to those who do not know, though even those who know believe he is an accidental creation of basilisk magic, the mystery Heir of Slytherin, Fawkes, and the combined accidental magic of Malfoy, Potter, and Lys. Only those who were in the Chamber and their families are aware, bound to secrecy as they are, along with the Healer of Hogwarts and the Heads of Houses. The endgoal being that he is allowed to attend Hogwarts for one final year, and then he shall… live as normal, he supposes. He and Albus have not quite discussed past Hogwarts, really.

“Percival is going to be Head Boy, yes?” Tom asks.

(It is the first time he initiates conversation with Albus, he knows. They both do.)

“Yes, actually. Mr. Weasley has shown great aptitude for it. Are you disappointed?”

“No. It would be illogical to make me Head Boy. I assume I was one when I was this age naturally, besides.”

“Not an untrue assumption.”

Tom glares at Albus, and the look on his face. Assessing. “I am not going to murder Percival for the position, Albus. You needn’t worry your shriveled, old heart about that. Lys would make me regret in unspeakable ways, no doubt.”

She has, after all, picked up Helvynya Prevett’s _Sollertia Augurium._ Tom doesn’t doubt that, once she translates it — and how amusing it was, when Lys realized the text wasn’t in modern English — Lys will be terrifying. It makes him somewhat proud, and he endeavors to help her when he can. He was more interested in Estmaro II and Ambrose Wealse’s works, the woman’s sons, but he can imagine the Mind Eater’s work was on his list as an adult. On the Other’s list, that is.

Albus, as usual, does not take the bait.

“And you would too, in part, isn’t that right, Tom? Percival is one of your friends in this time.”

He doesn’t say: Percival is one of your only friends in this time. He doesn’t have to.

“Think what you want. Am I to take the train?”

“It’s part of the Hogwarts experience, is it not? You’ll be introduced at the Feast as a transfer student, from home-schooling. I hope you do not mind you will be assumed to be a Halfblood because of this.”

Tom curls his lip. “I suppose we have little other choice.”

“Very good, my boy. Side-Along Apparition, then. My arm?”

“You’re going to make it uncomfortable and nauseating just because you can, old man.”

“All part of the experience, my boy.”

They disappear with a POP!

 

**…**

 

“I told you, you shouldn’t have dated her.”

“Quiet, Lys.”

“Harper and Lu and Dietrich will never let you live this down.”

“The opinions of your little friends do not matter to me.”

“You’re glowing red and purple.”

“ _Quiet._ ”

(He is. Paint of those two colors — one deep, dark red and the other a bluish, deep purple — are slathered all over him glowing as it drips onto the floor. He’s humiliated and irritated and he’s going to _get_ Josephine for this.)

“Why did you start dating Josie in the first place, anyways? You didn’t like her when you met her. Not as bad as when you and Dietrich first saw each other, but still. I thought I was going to witness a legitimate Slytherin House civil war.”

“I had precious few allies when I first met Josephine Zabini, Lys. A civil war is not what I would have called such a thing, had I not decided it was better to seek amiable relations with the girl. This is what I rather wanted to avoid.”

“Being pranked to high hell?”

(Lys is smirking at him, and her magic is bright and fluttering as it always is when she’s amused and happy. Most of him is too annoyed and concentrated on counter-spells to be his normal content at the sight and feel of it.)

“ _Unfriendly relations._ ”

“For pranks, this is rather tame, you know. What did she do it for anyways? Seems more playful than anything, and it’s not like you broke her heart. Hate to say it, Tom, but you’re not irresistible. The best of girls manage to get out from under your charm. Me, for example.”

“You’re a pre-pubescent. You don’t count.”

“Er… one, gross. Two, _gross._ Three, never use the word ‘pre-pubescent’ ever again.”

“Bloody-! Lys, I will help you translate as much bloody _Sollertia Augurium_ as you wish to foist on me if you assist me in taking _off_ this damned…”

“You’d already do that, stupid. Here… But seriously, all she did was a modified coloring charm. What for, and why red and purple?”

“Just keep working!”

(In his memory, Josephine is sauntering up to him as he freshly drips with glowing paint, the Slytherins around them snickering — Lys’ Harper and Lu roaring in laughter, the lack of subtlety being almost _painful._ The infuriating Head Girl grins at him, sharp and aware, and she leans in to whisper to him. “You really should get a damn clue, Riddle. She calls you her _Mage Sight buddy_ , but I know what you _really_ want to be.”)

“Tom? I think I’ve got it. Modify a _Finite_ a little, like this…”

“Ah. Thank you, Lys.”

“Of course. Now… _Sollertia Augurium?”_

“Fine. Ridiculous girl.”

 

**…**

 

At thirteen, Lys has grown a few inches. She used to just reach his chest; now she reaches it entirely. She’s small for her age, her _potesta_ group dwarfing her — noticeable because they’re constantly _flocking_ her — but her presence is big and the room usually goes quieter if she walks in. No matter what, though, she always reserves a bright expression for when she spots him, so he supposes he can’t really be too jealous of the position she commands in and out of their shared House.

At fourteen, Lys is just about at his shoulders, a _parvus potesta_ queen and proud of it. Tom works as a librarian in a family-owned bookshop in a neat little corner of Diagon Alley, the owner being good friends with Albus Dumbledore. He communes from Larkspur Cottage and spends much of his time reading. Lys absolutely loves his job and bothers him whenever she can, begging for free books and bringing food from Mrs. Weasley. Once, she brought Potter, who stammered and stuttered as Tom bowed to him again; he remembers the etiquette of a Life Debt, even as the brat doesn’t seem to even _know_ it. The boy doesn’t visit at often as Lys does, but he _does_ visit, and Tom finds the child not as irritatingly naive or stupid idealistic as he remembers.

At fifteen, Lys has reached her peak height, the crown of her head just past his shoulders. The glares and glowers of Dietrich Bastion and Lucas Vaisey only deepen, and he assumes it’s jealousy that puts them there. After all, unlike last year, Tom has access to Lys whenever he wishes — he is the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, after all. And, he supposes, she is growing into quite a beauty. Not like her sister, who is all girlish charm and elegance, but… Well, Lys has the gait of a predator and the face of a queen, the command of one, and it is attractive. She despises Valentine’s Day but it is one of the few days the sheep have the courage to admit that she is lovely without fear of retribution; she so dislikes being embarrassed.

At sixteen, Lys is between O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s and Tom is highly aware that he’s in trouble. He is not a stranger to attraction or beauty — he did _date_ Josephine Zabini, if only out of curiosity, all those years ago — but Lys is still a year from being of Age and he is twenty-one. Not only that, but he has inherited the bookshop and spends his days tending to it or looking over old, forgotten magicks while Lys is yet a _student at Hogwarts_. Where Albus, whom he still lives with, is the Headmaster. He is twenty-one and not truly a real wizard — he is aware of the fact that he was a _soul shard_ once — and in love with a girl whose hardheadedness when it comes to self-confidence is only eclipsed by her obliviousness when it comes to her own attraction. Ridiculous. She can translate the entirety of _Sollertia Augurium_ but she doesn’t even see how her so-called _friends_ trail after her heels like begging pups, pawing for a scrap or two of attention and/or affection. Albus likes to laugh at him when he growls about it over a glass of Firewhiskey, and Tom always says to him — as he does probably every week — “ _I hate you.”_

At seventeen, Tom is done. He’s had enough. Her and her twin’s birthday party has just ended, the stars are out and the night is a good temperature, and he drags her out to the fields and tells her that she had better take responsibility for being such an endearing, utterly lovely, eternally _ridiculous_ girl. He’s not much to offer, on account of the cuffs on his wrists — which he forgets about, sometimes — and the bookshop he’s responsible for, but she had better damn well take him anyways because otherwise he’s going to go _insane_ waiting for her. He says as much to her and Lys goes still and blushes a deep red and then he finally figures out how it feels to kiss her.

(It feels like coming home, and the first steps on an adventure.)

At eighteen, she lives with him in the apartment above his bookshop, which laid empty until a few months prior. Albus keeps Larkspur Cottage open to him, but no longer lives there, so Tom finds little use of it, unless he wishes to pay a visit to Fiddle. They have dinner with Lys’ family at least once a week, where he is as part of the family as anyone of the redheads, though the men — which is most of the Weasleys — glare fiercely at him when Lys is looking away. He sneers right back, of course. Percival in particular flits between disapproval and friendliness whenever Tom turns to him, which is part amusing and part irritating. Lys holds his hand under the table, their fingers laced together, and he relishes the feel of their magic, which is similar enough that he wonders if, to her eyes, they’re nearly the same color at this point.

At nineteen, Lys wears an engagement ring around her left ring-finger. When she doesn’t think he’s looking, she marvels over it and and smiles.

At twenty, Lys Riddle gets Tom a snake and he feels his chest swell with love and pride when she demonstrates that she probably loves it more than he does.

At twenty-one, her first spell goes to the market.

At twenty-two, she’s going to have their first child and he doesn’t know what to do if it turns out at twisted as he was, once. She laughs and reassures him that if she fixed him, she’ll certainly be able to do the same with their child.

At twenty-two, she goes into-

At twenty-three, she is holding his hand and telling him-

At twenty-four-

At twenty-

At-

At

At

Oh. 

That’s right, isn’t it?

This isn’t real.

 

**…**

 

**(This is how the story goes.)**

Tom sees his life as he wishes it could have been. As they both wish it could’ve been, even if she can’t see it at the moment, for all the tears and blood on her face. She’s eleven and sobbing he’s sixteen and dying and it all seems so far away. The Chamber is echoingly silent, there is ink and blood and poison coating the stone floor, and his soul is being ripped into pieces and stuffed back into Draco Malfoy. He struggles to feel her snake-skin warmth, her cool waters, her smooth stones, her silk softer and gentler than kisses. 

“Pathetic,” he sighs to himself.

Lys, concussed and eleven-years-old and grieving, frowns dazedly at him. “No need to be rude, Tom. You shov’me into a pillar. A snake pillar. Rember? No, erm, re-mem-ber? It’s hard to think, I can’t even recall m’Healing spells. Bollocks.”

He shakes his head. “Not you. Me.”

“Narcissist,” she fires back immediately.

He wants to laugh but it hurts too much. Of course Lys would say that, concussed and bleeding and about to pass out. Of course.

It was a sweet dream. A bittersweet dream. There was no way he could have survived this. The ritual for stealing a soul was not meant for animal souls, even if they were as ancient and powerful as a basilisk’s. He could not have lived in this world with her, not the way he wishes. If only…

“I wish you had been born in 1926,” he says. She would have been even more revered then. There were so few girls at Hogwarts in his era that matched her intelligence, her cunning, her drive. He would have been interested in her. They could’ve been friends. Maybe more… But that is, again, wishful thinking. Delusions of a dying boy. “You must think me foolish,” he dismisses himself.

“I think everyone’s foolish. Teenagers especially.”

He laughs a little. It sends jolts of pain up to what remained of him.

“A child,” he marvels. She is tiny and young and _a child_. “More than fifty years old, and I was taken apart by a child. Because I wanted a child to-” _Because I was stupidly in love with a_ \- “-to be my friend.”

(Stupidly, because Tom is not sure he is even capable of such a thing.)

(Surely not.)

(But this is the closest he’ll ever get, he’s sure of _that_. He doesn’t know how else to describe it. Perhaps he’s _that_ ignorant in how friendship works that he cannot even know what the difference between platonic and romantic love. Perhaps.)

She smiles at him. “Haven’t figur’ it out, ‘en? Silly Tom. I think li’ a 19-year-old, at the ver’ least. Reincarnations an’ all that.”

Wait.

What?

He searches her face, her magic. Reincarnation is outlandish enough that he is not… entirely sure she is kidding. But… But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why she acts older and yet also childish. A mix of memories and personalities and experiences. Why she knows things about Muggles no pureblood has business knowing. Past knowledge that was once obvious and self-explanatory. Why he is so drawn to her, maybe. Death has always fascinated and repulsed him.

To drown someone, you need not fear the water. To want to be the one drowning others, you need to know fear of it. A juxtaposition.

Well. Not so much an eleven-year-old, then.

He laughs. “Ah. That’s not so bad, then.”

A sixteen-year-old pining for a nineteen-year-old… that is not as pathetic as he thought it was. A good last thought. A good last sight, too: the girl who defied death more thoroughly than the Other did through Horcruxes, or Harry Potter did, through his survival of the Killing Curse. Amazing. A true reincarnation. He would’ve loved to have known that before. Everything Lys was, was always so _interesting._ It’s a shame… It’s a shame it’s time, it’s _his time._  The things they could've accomplished… The warmth and lightness in his chest that he's never had before, that he's never been able to replicate without her. Ridiculous. 

He’s glad that he met her, though, even fifty years too late. He's glad he touched the water of her soul, drank of it, tasted beauty and death in one breath. A sailor drowns and becomes the sea itself, the coral that colors it, the clams that guard their precious, blighted treasures of smooth stone and scale. He will rise when the sun burns his waves, scatter into the wind and sky, and she will step out into the rain. She'd dance as it pours, because she's that type of ridiculous. She'd dance with him and he'd rain down on her and for every smile her lips mark into her face he will feel it with his hands and keep them close. Perhaps this is why death is so greedy, taking all the loveliest things in the world for himself, with those left behind just... bereft.

It is a lovely dream he dreams as he breaks into pieces.

He only wishes that she weren’t crying.

 

**…**

 

_Will we meet again, do you think?_

_I’m certain of it. I’ll be waiting for you here, at the end of all things._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I never claimed I was that good at romances, but eh. There you go. Everyone kept sobbing over Tom Riddle so here's a little something for you. :)
> 
> Next time you see me, it'll be arc 4, fellas! :)


End file.
